


parting is no sweet sorrow

by astrotxt



Series: like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Depressed Dean, Gender Dysphoria, Going from 2018 to 2025, M/M, Trans Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8192524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrotxt/pseuds/astrotxt
Summary: By all accounts, Dean Winchester has a perfectly fine life; he has a lovely house, in a lovely town, surrounded by lovely people. Except something - or rather someone - is missing, someone he left behind seven years ago. Takes place between Michigan 2018 and Connecticut 2025.





	1. 2025

Dean can smell rain coming on as he watches the sun come up for the third dawn in a row this week. Well, at least from behind the curtain. He lets his worn Vonnegut rest in his lap, leaning against the headboard of his frankly too-big bed, and stares into space a little. It doesn’t matter. He would look out the window, but he wouldn’t see anything new, which is fine. He sinks into his mattress and pulls his covers over his head. 

 

Any day now, he thinks, he’ll get up too early for the town to be as perfect as it always is. He’ll wake up, dawn not quite caught up, and catch sight of a starless void that starts across the threshold of his perfect little house. Ridiculous. A house for just one person. He thinks back to when he was younger, when he would revel in an empty house, free of Mary, free of Sam, just for the afternoon. He’d sit out on the porch with a pilfered beer and watch the fields, alone but not lonely. 

 

Well. He’s not in Kansas anymore. Christ, and how many times has he made _that_ particular joke to himself? Obviously not out loud. He’s a writer, for fuck’s sake. Literary integrity and all that shit. Plus, the sheer cheesiness of it all. Donna would have a conniption, or maybe - shock horror etc. - assume he got his sense of humour back. God forbid. 

 

Even if he’s been up for hours already, Dean hasn’t actually taken a look outside. Hasn’t even left his bed. He pulls back his covers from over his head and lays them back down, every movement careful and deliberate. He moves deliberately, these days. No imprint in the bed beside him, no stolen blankets, just the right amount of pillows for one person. It’s fine. 

 

He passes the trench coat on its usual place on the coat stand. He doesn’t run his fingers along the worn fabric anymore, but it’s a close thing this morning. Probably the lack of sleep. He grabs his fitted peacoat because God knows he’d have an easier time picking winning lottery numbers than predicting Connecticut’s weather. But it’s fine! Of course, it’s fine! Connecticut’s beautiful this time of year, it’s gorgeous. 

 

And the cherry trees are in bloom; how could he be sad when those pink blossoms line his walk to Jody’s Diner, home of the best coffee this side of the Atlantic? He couldn’t be. He shouldn’t be. Relocating to Chester was the best thing he ever did. So that’s that.

 

* * *

 

 

Jody’s is a blessing to counteract his bullshit insomnia, but Jody herself is no-nonsense. Weird, he’d always heard that small towns were either beyond backwards, or so saccharine as to give you cavities. Chester leans towards the latter, what with the festivals every five minutes, and the town meetings in that cutesy pastel-coloured town hall, and fuck, the general picturesque-ness. Enough to make a guy puke at every rolling hill and duck pond, but vomit doesn’t necessarily fit with the aesthetic, so he keeps it to himself. But Jody, oh, Jody’s the _best_. She’s gruff, competent, and brews coffee strong enough to kill a man. They’ve barely exchanged more than his coffee order in five years. She’s probably his best friend here, and isn’t that a great thought?

 

Dean settles with his joe at his usual bench in his usual corner of the town square and just… watches. Some habits die hard, and Donna’s voice of wisdom tells him _you can never let yourself slack in writerly observation, Dean-o!_ , so he sips his coffee and waits for the town to unfold before him. 

 

It doesn’t take long. He spots Rufus Turner, never has a nice word to say about anyone or anything in town, having a smoke just outside his front door. Dean loves him, his turns of phrase, his way of smiling at you as he rips you to shreds for even looking funny at his lawn. He’s the life of the town-hall meetings, gives them that extra bite. Dean suspects he’s got an arsenal of land mines hidden in a very particular pattern underneath his beloved lawn, maybe resembling a hand flipping the bird at the sky. He’s an old coot, but he’s Chester’s old coot, and apparently when he reads in Temple, it’s mesmerising. So he can’t be all bad.

 

He spots Pamela Barnes walking by with her flavour of the month. Every strapping young man in town has taken a turn escorting Pamela around on her Sunday walks. Dean knows for a fact that, even if she’s blind, she can tell _exactly_ how good she looks with her barely legal helpers. She’s the town psychic, and she goes full-ham, or so he’s heard; he’d tried getting a reading a little after he arrived, but Pamela had pawned him off with some mumbo-jumbo about his aura being too clouded with pain, whatever the hell that even means. Probably clocked that he wasn’t easily won over by her schtick. Probably. Hopefully. 

 

And Ajay, quiet but consistent, takes his daughter Hael out for some air every morning like clockwork; she’s a curious kid, very serious-looking, even at the ripe old age of three. Very blue eyes. Dean tries not to get choked up every time he sees a pair of baby blues, but it’s a hard thing. He worries that it always will be. But Ajay, he’s a good dad, he talks to Hael like she’s a grown-up, which she probably appreciates. Kids prefer not to be talked down to. Sam always hated it. Shit. He makes a mental note to call Sam. It’s been too long. 

 

Although he technically knows of everyone in town (with a population of less than four thousand, it’s hard not to), in just five years he’s managed to earn the rightful title of town recluse. He exchanges a little small talk when necessary, he smiles at the right moments, but people are quick enough to notice he’s never really engaged. It’s acceptable, but not forgivable. There’s always one part of his brain that’s comparing. He knows it. He hates it. He can do nothing to change it. So it goes. 

 

Speaking of which, he needs postcards. The bell above the door at _Mark My Words_ tinkles as he walks in. Samandriel, sweet, wispy Samandriel Marks, smiles at him. Dean wishes he wouldn’t. He walks over to the fiction section, even though he knows he doesn’t need to, doesn’t even really want to, but hey, it’s something to do. His eyes scan routinely over the names, T, U, V… There. D. Winchester. _The Android’s Rapture._ He cringes. He still hates that goddamn title, and the shitty two dollar art on the front of this year’s edition. He hates that minimalism has made a comeback. He hates that his beautiful house in this beautiful town in this beautiful part of the country is all thanks to those 300-odd pages of complete shit. Everyone’s their own worst critic, but Dean thinks he’s his best. Most likely the only thing he’s good at these days. He’s sure there’s a consensus or something. 

 

He picks two postcards, twin black and white photos of a pit-bull struggling with a plate of spaghetti. 

 

“Will that be all today, Mr. Winchester?” Samandriel’s voice has deepened the way a puddle does after a bit of rain overnight. He probably thinks it’s a drastic change, and he doesn’t meet Dean in the eye. 

 

“That’s all,” and his voice is rougher than even he’s expecting. He goes so long without speaking, it’s a wonder he still remembers. “Thanks.”

 

Samandriel looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes. Dean swallows, audibly. “$2.00.”

 

Dean slides the two notes over, picks his postcards up from the counter and leaves before he can breathe again. 

 

* * *

 

 

He’s almost finished with his first postcard when he gets a call from Anna. He flips the little widget thingy onto his wall panel and waits for the call to connect. 

 

“Hello? Dean? Can you hear me okay?” Anna’s right up against her camera and Dean gets a good view of the inside of her nose. 

 

“Back up, Milton.”

 

She shuffles and he gets a good look at her, hair cropped tight on her head, still a flaming red. She smiles and waves. Nice to know some things remaining the same are all right. “Well, we can’t all be sci-fi nerds, now, can we, Winchester?”

 

“I wish you could, book sales can always go higher,” he jokes, settling on the stool in front so he can relax. “How’s tricks?”

 

“Gallery opening went okay, press was a pain in the ass, but you know all about that,” she waves him off, “anyway, I got some really nice coverage and I have an interview next week!”

 

“With who?”

 

“Oh, Comely? Some editorial. Looked kinda indie, which I’m down with, but aw, the girl on the phone sounded so sweet!”

 

“They always do,” he rolls his eyes, and he can hear her scoff, “how’s Jo?”

 

“Oh, y’know, this and that,” she says quickly. Oh, Anna, couldn’t be subtle to save her life. “She went, uh, back last week.”

“Back to Kansas?”

 

“Kevin’s birthday.”

 

“And you’re okay with that?”

 

“Oh, please, that’s ancient history,” she waves him off again, and it’s such a Jo gesture that his heart tugs a little with how much he misses them, “and besides, I’m pretty sure I’ve given her enough incentive not to leave me in the dust.”

 

Dean flinches a little at that, and hopes the connection’s not good enough for Anna to have picked up on it, “Yeah, well, watch out. Sam tells me Tran’s a real heartbreaker these days.”

 

Anna nods sagely, “Yeah, all those Princeton grads, they’ll do that to you.”

 

There’s a long pause where there didn’t use to be long pauses, but that’s sort of the name of the game on calls like this. Especially when Jo’s not there to buffer.

 

“So… how’re you?” she says, and it’s like she’s on a tightrope, he can hear it in her voice. 

 

So he doesn’t bother pushing her off, “Oh, y’know, this and that.”

 

“Ha ha, still the comedian,” she snorts.

 

“You know me,” he lies. 

 

Anna gives him an awkward smile, one of those closed-lips types, the ones that mean the conversation’s gone dead. 

 

“Well, better get back to the grindstone,” he mutters, already getting up to terminate the call.

 

She makes no move herself, “Oh, no, already?”

 

They say their goodbyes and Dean’s staring at his reflection in the GateGlass™ and notices his stubble is coming in nicely. Which explains some things. Well, no point in grooming, who’s it for? He runs a hand over it and decides that it’s fine. He looks fine. He doesn’t look himself in the eyes, but that’s okay. 

 

He goes to his desk and opens his old school laptop, with keys and everything. He knows people assume he likes old tech because he’s a grumpy old fart (which, uncool, he’s only just pushing 30), or because he revels in the concept of a sci-fi writer not being interested in modern tech, or just because Aesthetic. But, like with most assumptions, they’re wrong. He just likes the feel of his old laptop. He likes interacting with something he’s been interacting with for a decade. It’s the longest, most rewarding relationship he’s had. 

 

He opens a document, takes out his notes (pen and paper, real stone-age shit) and writes. 

 

* * *

 

 

Well, kind of. The sun’s set and he’s written at least a hundred- no, wait, less than a hundred words. Fuck. At this rate, he’ll get the book done in a little over three years! Great!

 

He closes the document and storms over to GateGlass, throws up some older bookmarks. He just needs to let off a little steam, that’s all. He can afford just one more bad day, no, one more _wasted_ day, right? 

 

PornHub’s an old haunt. He flicks through some favourites, and still gets pissed off at the names. He likes the ones with a bit of scenario, usually manages to get off before the real action even starts, but fuck, the writing’s so bad sometimes. It’s nice when the actors try a little improv, try to make it sound a little naturalistic. Dean wonders, as he plays with his balls, if writing scripts for porn would be somewhat lucrative. Maybe he could play around with character, maybe- 

 

And the video’s over. His dick’s not being terribly responsive, not as much as he’d like. He turns on his phone for the first time that day and writes out a message. 

 

**+913 897 4356**

Hey. Come over?

 

He waits, biting at the skin against his nails. 

 

**+203 659 1272**

yeah, sure, when?

 

**+913 897 4356**

Now

 

**+203 659 1272**

sure thing, baby ;)

 

**+913 897 4356**

Don’t. 

 

**+203 659 1272**

sorry!!! forgot.. be there in 20 :)

 

Dean hears the bell ring fifteen minutes later.

 

“Hey,” Samandriel greets, bearing a six-pack, “you o- _woah_.”

 

Dean yanks him inside and immediately starts undressing him, kissing down his neck and cupping his ass. Well, not cupping, more grabbing. Grabbing at every free bit of skin that he can. 

 

“Jesus, Dean, _Dean_ , what, no hello?” He’s already breathless. He always is. “God, there, fuck…”

 

Dean’s single-minded when it comes to this. He shoves Samandriel’s pants down, takes stock of his ruined clothes and how sweet he looks panting against his front door. 

 

“Upstairs,” he says, and Samandriel is quick to almost trip over his pants to hurry to obey. Dean hates the sharpness he sees there. The intelligence. He’s stupid to come here. Dean’s even worse to let him. “Get yourself ready.”

 

Dean fucks him hard, lights off, no talking, except the sound of Samandriel’s whining and pleading. He comes quickly (as usual), lies sweating and panting in the middle of Dean’s bed, clearly hoping to stay the night (he never learns), and looking up at Dean like he hung the moon. 

 

It’s nights like this Dean hates himself the most, for pushing his bullshit onto someone else. He tells himself it’s okay, that Samandriel knows the deal, knows this is just sex. He doesn’t convince himself, let alone the kid. 

 

“So, uh,” he swallows hard, “that was fun,” he chatters, somehow with enough energy to keep trying to engage with Dean. A glutton for punishment. Dean can relate. “Boys at Harvard sure are smart, but they don’t, well, wow. Like you.” He circles a thin finger on the sheets. He knows Dean doesn’t like to be touched after. It’s considerate, and he doesn’t deserve it. 

 

“Yeah, sure,” Dean manages, “anyway. Gotta get back to work.”

 

Samandriel shifts, “Y-Yeah, of course, sorry-”

 

He leaves without a sound, without Dean having to show him out. He knows the way. It’s fine. 

 

Dean buries his head in his hands. Fuck. 

 

He goes through his phone contacts, finds Sam’s name. He gets a voicemail about Sam being way too busy with depositions, but he’ll try to get back to you asap!

 

He finds Charlie’s name. He calls. He gets told for the billionth time that the number’s disconnected. He calls again. And again. And again. Just in case. 

 

He finally curls up and pulls the covers over his head. Maybe he’ll smother himself in his sleep. He doesn’t cry, which is fine. He hasn’t cried in years, not since he bought the house. It’s a lovely house. He’s fine. 

 

Everything is fine. 

 

 


	2. 2018

Gasping and clawing at the sheets, Dean wakes up in a cold sweat. Fuck, he’s so tired, he just needs some sleep but these new meds somehow make him more restless. He hasn’t had a good night for weeks now. He wipes a hand down his face and groans. 

 

“Dean?” Cas’s sleepy voice is so grounding, even though he sounds a little pissed off. Who wouldn’t be, at 5:34 in the goddamn morning on their morning off?

 

He strokes his hand over soft, unruly hair. “Sorry, bad dream, go back to sleep,” he murmurs, already feeling safer with Cas under his fingertips. 

 

Cas rises like a puppet on strings and kisses the growing knot in Dean’s shoulder. “Talk,” he sighs, contrasting the command with soothing circles on Dean’s back. It’s fucking heavenly. 

 

“Nothin’, just… Dad stuff. The usual,” he bends his head forward, slumping, no match against the gentle movements. “S’nice,” he breathes. 

 

“I thought it was a _bad_ dream,” Cas jokes, and Dean stutters a laugh. God, he loves this guy. It fills him up sometimes, like an empty pail every time he gets to see that face, listen to his shit jokes, see that wry smile, kiss those raw lips. When he wakes up to Cas, sees him every goddamn day, Dean feels… light.

 

“I hate you,” Dean laughs again and slides down into their sheets, pulling Cas with and against him. Morning wood bumps against Cas’s hip and he smirks that dark, knowing smirk. 

 

“Clearly not all of you agrees with that statement,” he grins, ducking under Dean’s waistband and rubbing until he hits the spot. Dean groans and finds Cas wet and bucking. 

 

Cas gasps. Dean matches his grin. “Clearly.”

 

He ducks under the covers and spreads Cas wide, just how they like it. He presses at his clit and Cas shivers. “Well, this is certainly my kind of wake-up call,” he breathes. 

 

“You’re too good with the words, clearly I’m not doing my job properly,” Dean follows up with two fingers sliding in effortlessly. 

 

Cas sounds wrecked, “Clearly.”

 

Dean eats him out and he comes before Cas does, rubbing himself off on the sheets. Cas’s thighs squeeze tight around Dean’s head and he breathes hard, the way he does every time. Dean wonders again for the billionth time how anyone could complain about monogamy when there’s moments like this: Dean leaning on the slight paunch of Cas’s tummy and pressing sucking kisses there. Cas huffs his annoyance; it’s cheaper, but he hates working at Biggersons, because he gets a discount on the food, too. 

 

“I’m gross,” he complains, sitting back on his elbows, but Dean ghosts his fingers over him again, and he falls back, still sensitive. 

 

“Don’t talk that way about my boyfriend,” he punctuates with another kiss. Another, another, another. “He’s fuckin’ hot. You’re just jealous.”

 

Cas looks at him like he’s the goddamn sun and Dean buries his face on Cas’s side. “Must be,” he yawns, and Dean kisses his head before heading off to the bathroom to get ready for work. Early bird and all that jazz. 

 

It’s a shitty little apartment, definitely a downgrade from his place in New York, but somehow it’s better. When they first moved in, the bare walls were probably what opened it up so much, but Cas hated it, couldn’t stand the waste. So he did what Cas does and made it beautiful.

 

Their bathroom is a geometric marvel; every wall looks like refracted light, due to Cas going to town on spare tinfoil that they don’t even _recycle_ , Dean, it’s a travesty! He brushes his teeth and opens the cabinet to pop his meds. They’re hiding behind the tampons, and he absently notes that Cas is running low, he should get some on his way back tonight. He draws a hand down his face, waking himself up for the day, sort of, and downs the happy pills. Cas keeps telling him to try out therapy, but. Well. No, in short. That’s how that conversation tends to go. 

 

He goes back into the bedroom to find Cas snoring - “Dean Winchester, I do not fucking snore!” - and taking up most of the bed. Dean finds his cleanest shirt and gets dressed, pressing a soft kiss to Cas’s sweaty forehead. 

 

As he leaves, he looks back at his home, smiles, and closes the door as quietly as possible. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Winchester, you got that coverage for me yet?” Donna yells whilst balancing a cup of coffee on at least three manuscripts (people do _not_ know how to goddamn edit, Dean can tell you that much) and kicking open the door to her office. 

 

“Uh, no, but someone’s on the line for you, uh, I think it might be Do- ”

 

“Stop!”

 

“But Doug- ”

 

“WINCHESTER! What did I tell you on the FIRST day?!”

 

“No filching the early-morning donuts?”

 

“The other thing!”

 

“Don’t touch that thing in the break room or I’ll get electrocuted?”

 

“Goddamnit, Dean…”

 

“What? You said a lot of things on the first day!”

 

“No mention of the D-word in this office! Ever!”

 

“Different Doug!”

 

“Oh, Manners?”

 

“Yes, Doug Manners on line 2!”

 

“Oh yah, send him on over then!”

 

Dean sighs and transfers the call. Since accepting this position, his life expectancy has significantly lowered, but he couldn’t wish for a better boss than Donna Hanscum. 

 

“Douglas effin’ Manners, how the heck are ya?” he hears her laugh her completely joyful laugh and can’t help but smile himself. Publishers are not exactly notorious for their warmth or friendliness, at least not the good ones, but Donna’s one of the best. She has literally said the words, “I’m tough but fair!” Dean just thinks she mainlines one too many cop shows. Still, she’s snapped up some of the best newcomers this decade, and he’s still angling to maybe join their ranks. 

 

Never in a million years would Dean look at publishing as a real career, he hasn’t got the heart, or, frankly, the knack. Talking to people endlessly, making them clean up their messes instead of just going ahead and doing it for them it’s… well, he has no clue how Donna’s done it, but different strokes. 

 

Speak of the devil- “Dean, could you book me and Manners lunch at the Radisson next Friday?”

 

It could _definitely_ be worse. He could be slaving under some dick-cheese that thinks their ass is too good to kiss, or someone folding under the pressure of ebook competitors. 

 

And Donna definitely didn’t have to hire him. He’d come in here with a manuscript thicker than his head and she’d offered him a job instead. He’ll probably never stop being grateful. 

 

The day slogs on as it usually does, Donna regaling him with her Cross-Fit adventures, asking him about Cas, chatting shit about their manager’s hairline, and doing work, occasionally. 

 

When he finally gets home, he reheats some leftovers and munches hunched over his laptop. It whirs impatiently as he works on his seventh draft of _The Android’s Rapture_. His masterpiece. He sort of lost wind around draft five, but Cas, fucking incredible Cas, drew some amazing art (he just _gets_ the design of Smith so fucking well, Dean basically almost cried when he saw it) and it pumped Dean right up. He glances at the various scribbles that he keeps tacked up on his board at his “workspace” (which is pretty much just a coffee table in a corner of their bedroom that has the least amount of dirty clothes per square foot). 

 

Cas has… let his illustration peter out a bit. Aside from redecorating their entire apartment with swirling patterns and rousing tableaus inspired by Dean’s almost-book, he’s not really been working so much. He’s been so focused on bringing in money for the two of them, and while Dean’s bringing in money, they barely scrape enough combined for rent. Publishing agent’s assistants don’t exactly rake it in, and as for fast-food chains… Biggersons are notorious for treating their employees like utter shit, and Cas runs the midnight shift most nights. As it is, it feels like Cas is living his entire life revolving around Dean and-

 

And Dean doesn’t really know what he thinks about that. 

 

On one hand, it’s- God, he really cannot put into words how much he adores Cas - which is probably a bad sign considering his dream career - but he wonders if he’s ever gonna be enough for Cas. He wonders (worries) if Cas is gonna wake up in five years time and look over at Dean and resent him, if the very sight of Dean is gonna make him realise he’s been wasting his fucking time and the bailout is way overdue. If-

 

“Dean?” The door clicks open and it’s Cas, Cas breathing so much colour into the room, even exhausted, even stinking like fry oil and looking like death. “Do we have any beer left?”

 

He goes over the fridge, rummaging for a bottle and Dean sidles up to him and leans his head against the freezer door, just looking. 

 

“Good day at work, honey-bear?” he croons. 

 

Cas snorts into his beer, “Fuck off.”

 

Dean pulls him in by his belt and places the bottle on the counter. He looks at Cas, right into those endless blues, and kisses him soundly. Unsurprisingly, he tastes like beer. Unsurprisingly, Dean loves him. 

 

“Wanna watch _The Office?_ ”

 

“Which season?”

 

“Three, obviously.”

 

He clasps Dean’s hand and drags him to the couch, “Well, how could I say no to that?”

 

Dean settles in, Cas settling back and almost nodding off every so often. Every time he startles back awake, he notices Dean watching him. 

 

“Hello,” he grumbles. 

 

“Hi,” Dean brings his hand up from Cas has been holding it and kisses his knuckles. 

 

They fall asleep to the jaunty theme tune, tangled up in each other, and as he winks off from consciousness, Dean assumes that this is what heaven is actually like.


	3. 2025

Dean stares up at his ceiling, his hands folded over his stomach. His internal clock ticks, letting him know this is around the time he showers. He elects to ignore this particular calling in favour of continuing to stare at his ceiling, searching for imperfections. Back in Kansas, there was a stubborn patch of mould in the top left-hand corner of his ceiling and he knew to keep an eye out for it, to make sure it didn’t come back. It was something to manage, but here, everything’s perfect. No mould, no creaky floorboards, no exploding hardware. Perfect. 

 

He gets up, still naked, and shrugs on a robe to go downstairs. He hasn’t quite fallen down the slippery slope of walking around his house in the nude; that’d be the final nail in the coffin. He doesn’t need to amplify just how alone he is. He makes sure his junk is covered and checks his email at the kitchen island, distributing his weight from foot to foot to stay awake. 

 

Donna has, in prime form, left him no less than 37 emails in the last fortnight. Most to the tune of ‘hey Dean, bud, where the fuck are the first five chapters?’, but some alternating to ‘you aren’t dead, are ya?’, which is thoughtful. He reads them all for propriety anyway, and that’s when he sees it, the dreaded phrase most authors these days wake up in a cold sweat about: **graphic novel collaboration**. 

 

To contextualise, recently in the franchise-saturated entertainment market, where everyone is sort of expected to have a hyphenated career, Dean spent his early intern days watching renowned prose writers be clamped down to a juvenile sequential artist straight out of Tisch with delusions of grandeur and aiming to cash in on that sweet sweet Marvel money. He watched them “collaborate”, a.k.a. clash over style, concepts, character, narrative, your basic storytelling tenements. Not that he disavowed artists or writers or graphic novelists, he just hated the buddy-cop formula of pitting two artists from different media together and expecting magic to happen. In his lengthy experience, either consoling nervous hermitic prose jockeys or calming down _New York Times_ bestsellers with their own oversized egos complain about ‘those damn millennials’ and not having complete carte blanche over their stories. 

 

Dean didn’t bother reading beyond the subject line before calling his agent.

 

“Dean-o, bud! How ya been?” Donna greets cheerfully, which is fuckin’ dangerous since she’s already been awake for three hours. 

 

Still, tact is for the weak, “What’s this about a collaboration?”

 

“Oh, honey, I’ve been greasin’ the wheels of that baby for a week now, I took your silence as implicit agreement!”

 

Fuck. “Donna- ”

“I gave the artist your address since you were incognito, he should be arriving tomorrow!” 

 

“Donna!”

 

“Yes, Dean?” she says oh so sweetly. 

 

“I’m sorry I’ve been MIA but,” he winces, “this punishment isn’t necessary. I’ve been working.”

 

“Oh, that must be why the PDF’s already snug in my inbox, huh?”

 

He’s barely written more than a page since she last checked in, “It’s not done, but- ”

 

“Dean, I’ma just stop you right there,” and that’s her no-nonsense voice followed by a brief pause, so he’s definitely in for a lecture, “it’s okay.”

 

What? “What?”

 

“I know this project has been daunting. Second Novel Syndrome, I get it, I do… but you continue moping and soon you’ll be irrelevant and I can’t- no, I won’t let you ride on your own coattails into obscurity. Y’got that?”

 

Dean grunts in response. 

 

“That’s what I figured. Call me once you’ve pow-wow’d with Picasso, he’s a good kid.”

 

“You said that about me, once.”

 

“Far as I’m concerned, I’m still an excellent judgement of character,” she says, although she sounds more like she’s trying to convince him than herself. 

 

“Got it.”

 

“Talk soon, Dean-o.”

 

He hangs up and it’s silence again. His head thuds with an oncoming headache, so he slumps upstairs to shower and make himself presentable enough to slink through Chester unnoticed. 

 

* * *

 

Jody’s Diner is bustling as per usual and Dean takes his regular seat at the counter. Without a word, Jody puts a mug down and fills it to the brim with coffee. It’s comfortable, it’s nice. 

 

Still, as much as he’d love to just sit here, drink, and leave without too much interaction, the thought of this collab sits heavy on his chest. And the fact that this guy’s coming to his _house_? Where he _lives_? It’s all very unsettling, and to complain to Anna, she’d probably just laugh in his face. He can’t talk to Charlie, or Jo, and Hannah’s an obvious no-go. Sammy’s playing radio silence, but he can’t blame his brainiac kid brother, after all, someone’s gotta be the unambiguously successful son, the one Mary can still-

 

“Oh, you’re still here?” Jody asks, bursting his bubble.

 

Dean looks up and around him. Aside from a couple teenagers and old man Turner, he’s the only one in here. He takes a look up at the clock and sees it’s nearly three in the afternoon.

 

“Holy shit, I’m still here?”

 

“Believe that’s what I just said, kiddo,” she scoffs, but she’s wiping down the counter more rigorously down his end. “Don’t have a lighter on me, but you wanna talk about it?”

 

Dean looks up at her, a dream in flannel with intelligent eyes and a hard frown, and realises he’s never looked her directly in the eye before. He swallows the last of his brew and tries to chew out the words. 

 

“Been sorta painted into a corner recently,” he starts, picking at his fingernails, “and it brought up some… stuff I’ve not wanted to look at.”

 

Jody hums and gets back to cleaning, so Dean assumes that’s the end of the conversation. 

 

“You ready to look at it now?” she asks anyway. She doesn’t look up as she does, just keeps cleaning the same pristine spot. 

 

He thinks for a moment that maybe he could talk to someone properly about this, maybe Jody could be a shoulder. He hasn’t spoken about any of this in almost a decade, and the last time he tried he lost one of his best friends. But Jody, who’s never once remarked on the weather, or absently noted what season it is, or even mentioned what went down at the latest town meeting, maybe she could understand. She still doesn’t look at him but he feels waves of that impersonal curiosity anyway. Maybe not. 

 

“Not really,” he mutters, putting down a twenty and leaving without looking back. 

 

He looks up at the cherry blossoms lining the path around the centre of town, notes how they make everything seem lighter and pinker than it really is. He feels like he lives in a snow globe sometimes. He walks faster back to his place. 

 

That’s when he sees the stranger standing on his porch, peeking in through his living room windows, hands in his pockets. Dude looks like he stepped out of a wind tunnel, at least from the back; either that or someone needs to introduce him to the concept of hairbrushes. Regardless, he doesn’t care how coiffed someone is, he doesn’t like someone looking into his house uninvited. 

 

“Hey, pal, this ain’t a museum,” he calls out, picking up the pace. 

 

And then the guy turns around and takes all the breath out of Dean’s lungs. 

 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says.


	4. 2018

Dean doesn’t even realise he’s slammed the door closed until he sees Cas jump from the sound. Cas turns around from where he’s sat on the couch to glare, but drops when he sees Dean’s face. 

 

“Rough day?” he raises an eyebrow, his arm draped across the ratty back of their three-seater. 

 

Dean drops everything and trudges forward before falling to his knees and leaning his forehead in Cas’s reach. Cas cards long fingers through his hair and Dean feels like he might melt into the carpet. He grunts in affirmative. 

 

Cas shuffles over until he can lean over and take Dean in both hands, cupping his face and kissing him, soft and long. When he pulls away, Dean notices his eyes are still closed. He opens them lazily and sniffs, looking at Dean like he can see the depths of his exhaustion. He looks frustrated that he can’t just snap his fingers and fix it. He seems to settle on tracing his thumb over Dean’s left eyebrow and smiling a very small smile before getting up. 

 

“You want some stew?” he calls over his shoulder. 

 

Dean takes a second before getting up and slumping onto the couch, opening his laptop bag to get his trusty machine out. “God, yes, stew sounds awesome right now. We got any rice left?”

 

Cas hums yes, and Dean opens up his three most recent documents. Editing morning noon and night is sort of taking its toll on him (he’s starting to see review mode in his nightmares), but when else is he supposed to write his bestseller to launch him into superbookdom so he can buy Cas pie every day?

 

Cas saves whatever he had and closes the laptop lid gently but definitively before shoving a hot bowl of stew and rice into his hands. “Eat.”

 

Dean grumbles but acquiesces, shovelling food into his mouth like it’s been eight days since he’s eaten, not eight hours. Cas rolls his eyes but pulls Dean’s laptop onto his lap and plugs in his hard drive to find a movie for them to watch. Dean notices the bags under Cas’s eyes and kisses his cheek softly. 

 

“We don’t have to watch anything. I’m beat, anyway,” he sighs, feeling the truth of those words sink in, “Any fun shit happen to you at Biggerson’s?”

 

Cas snorts, “We got a newbie, but it’s his first time actually working, or so it seems. Bad attitude, hilarious to watch from the back.” 

 

He plucks a sad-looking carrot from Dean’s bowl and chews slowly. They know how to make food last these days. This particular stew is in its ninth iteration in a row; their local butcher was just giving away innards, and Dean never thought that _that_ could be something that brightens up his day, but that’s the state of things these days. Dean hands over the remains of his food for Cas to polish off, but Cas puts it back into the pot. 

 

“Had a big lunch today,” he explains as he nuzzles in to Dean’s side. Dean presses four quick kisses in a row to Cas’s forehead and leans back, somewhat satisfied, even if part of that satisfaction is just pure tiredness. Cas rubs his hands over Dean’s stomach, under his shirt, seeking out that warmth. “Lest I incur undue wrath, do you want to talk about it?”

 

Dean sighs as quietly as he can, but Cas pauses his touch for a moment. “No wrath here, babe, I just… I’m a little rundown.”

 

Cas shifts himself so that his head rests on Dean’s lap, although he avoids Dean’s eyes. He traces mug stains and whorls of wood on their fourth-hand table and hums. He breaks the silence casually, “You should take a vacation.”

 

“Ah, yeah, what with how much time I have on my hands.”

 

“Donna would say yes in a heartbeat,” Cas retorts, “next excuse?”

 

“No money. What, you wanna trawl through every tourist trap and come away without something light-up or Disney-related?”

 

“I was actually thinking a road trip. Couch-surfing, or, y’know, the impala’s big enough to lie down in,” a wicked glint in his eye taking Dean briefly back to when they tested and proved that theory multiple times when they were still violently horny teenagers. They’re still pretty fuckin’ horny, they’re just not quite as teen-aged. “You, me, the open road, diner food for miles at a time.”

 

“Oh yeah, where?”

 

“Maybe to… Lawrence,” he trails off, letting their hometown’s name fade into the nightly quiet. 

 

Dean looks at the length of Cas’s neck, sees the flush there. “You’re serious.”

 

“Mm-hmm.”

 

“I… don’t really want to go to Kansas,” Dean says, and unfortunately it’s the truth, however Cas takes it. There’s something to be said about going home and it being so easy to fall back into, so comfortable that he forgets to come back. “Not right now, at least.”

 

“Right, when you’re a beautiful, successful, rock ‘n' roller?”

 

“Or when I can order a stack of pancakes without breaking the bank.”

 

“... Touché.”

 

Cas keeps tracing the table's knobbly knees, and Dean carefully plucks his hand out of the air to get Cas’s attention back on him. “But a road trip does sound… I mean, where’d you wanna go other than Kansas?”

 

He punctuates every other word with a kiss to Cas’s hand. Cas looks up at him and gives him his quiet, dazzling smile. “Is this appeasement?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“It feels like it might be appeasement,” his smile gets wider. Dean presses a more open-mouthed kiss to Cas’s wrist, and Cas lets out a puff of air, his throat and chest flushing such a pretty pink. 

 

“What about Maine? It’s not super far away, right?”

 

“I’ll check,” Cas breathes, his eyes hooding as Dean’s mouth pulls him upright. 

 

“Now?” Dean teases, Cas's hands already threading through his hair purposefully. 

 

Cas kisses him, and it’s wet and so good, with his hand pressing hard into Dean’s leg to keep himself balanced, grounding Dean in sensation. He pulls thick whines out of Dean like a symphony and shit, now he’s hard. Cas’s hand up his shirt roams his skin and Dean pulls him closer, feeling Cas’s pants against his neck where he’ll likely leave a lovely composition of marks. 

 

Dean bucks into Cas’s rolling hips and they groan. Dean wants this slower, no real destination in mind and the way Cas pulls back to give Dean a concentrated look, he’s not alone. Cas pushes himself up and holds out a hand for Dean. 

 

“C’mon. Shower. We both stink.”

 

Dean lets Cas pull him up and they share the cramped bathtub and the sputtering spray, touching, just enjoying. They’ve gotten very good at being frugal. 

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes up to his alarm and doesn’t notice falling back asleep until his emergency alarm (to the tune of Charlie and Hannah’s voice screaming “YOU’RE GONNA BE LAAAAAATE!”) has him launching up and out, thankful for his idiot past self for at least showering the night before. He doesn’t even bother doing up his fly before flinging himself into the living room to see Cas on his laptop. If he had the time, he’d notice the severe look on his face, but as late as he is, he tries to just grab the laptop. 

 

“Dude, y’couldn’t wake a guy up?”

 

Cas looks vaguely shell-shocked. “Dean, I- ”

 

But then Dean sees the message in plain red and blue, and he doesn’t even need to read it to know what it means. 

 

“The internet,” he says stupidly, anyway. 

 

Cas sucks in a breath, “Dean, it’s not- ”

 

“I’m such an idiot,” he starts.

 

“No, you’re not, the automatic payments were shut off, remember?”

 

“I should’ve remembered.”

 

“Dean, it’s easy enough to fix, it’s not- ”

 

“A big deal?” Even though he says it softly, Cas reacts like he shouted. “I’ll call them- ”

 

“I already did. We have to pay extra. Late fee.”

 

So much for that road trip. “Fine, I’ll patch it through.”

 

“Dean, I don’t want you to.”

 

“Well, sweetheart, it’s not like Biggerson’s is handing out bonuses anytime soon,” he snaps. 

 

Cas squares him with a warning look, “Go to work, Dean. You’re late.” He lets the words drip as Dean storms out. 

 

Such an idiot. How could he have slipped up so easily? Sure, work has been kicking his ass, but that’s the job, them’s the breaks. T shots and food and gas and water don’t grow on trees, and he had zero experience before landing this gig. He should be kissing Donna’s boots every morning before he hands her her memos. 

 

As it is, he’s just trying to make through the day without cussing out any other junior interns. He mostly makes it by with a few evil looks their way. 

 

Donna still pulls him aside. “Wanna tell me what that’s all about?” She says, indicating his general face area. 

 

“Rough night,” he grunts, hoping it’ll suffice, but not exactly holding out hope. 

 

Her voice is syrupy, “That so?”

 

He shrugs. 

 

She barely looks up. “Next time you wanna bring that attitude in, I suggest you take a walk right around the block and back home, Winchester,” and she looks up smiling to Dean’s waxen face. “You pick up the contracts from downstairs?”

He nods, handing them over. She checks and sighs, handing them back. “Need them in triplicate, Dean-o.”

 

He practically runs to the copy room, her smile stuck firmly in his brain. He doesn’t make eye contact with anyone the rest of the day. 

 

* * *

 

He arrives home to Cas… on the internet. Wait. 

 

“I didn’t get a chance to- ”

 

“I know, I sorted it,” Cas answers quickly, “Now, were you serious about Maine? Because I’ve been researching and Connecticut looks nice, too. There’s a place called Chester, they have a pretty reasonable bed and breakfast, and they have tours, Dean, _tours_ , it’s- ”

 

“You sorted it?” 

 

Cas finally looks up at him. “I had an hour, went down to the bank.”

 

Dean thinks of the carefully stored rolls of money in their sock drawer, the one that’s implicitly being saved for Cas's top surgery, “Cas, you didn’t- ”

 

“It’s my money, Dean,” Cas snaps. “I don’t need an accountant. That’s what savings are for.”

 

“Not what _those_ savings are for, Cas.”

 

“Then I’ll take commissions! Dean, I want a holiday. With you. We deserve it, don’t we?”

 

Dean sighs, “It’s not about deserving, Cas, of course you deserve a break- ”

 

“WE deserve it, Dean, for God’s sakes!”

 

Dean bites his lip. “Fine.”

 

“It’s my money,” Cas repeats, like he’s trying to convince Dean. He scratches the wispy shadow that’s still too short to shave under his chin and goes back to the internet, like the minute he’s touched it, he’s self-conscious. 

 

He's been on T a year and a half, and the subtle shifts in his face are incredible to Dean, although he knows Cas doesn't really agree. Not that he doesn't see the difference, but that the difference isn't as perfect or quick as he wants it to be. Of course Cas would never actually say something like that out loud (or sober), but Dean can pick up context clues. He gets upset that he looks younger, that he’s getting spots as well as a deeper voice, puberty all over again, that maybe he's not as attractive. 

 

Dean sees the way Cas gets lost in the mirror, sometimes. How he seems to try and look through himself to how he'd look if life wasn't a load of shit and a jumble of genes. Dean wishes that he could somehow show Cas how _he_ sees him, as the brave, fierce spark of a man he's been watching Cas become. But it's not about Dean, it's about Cas, so he slips in casual appraising looks and nonchalant comments like 'lookin' good, dude' so that they slip past Cas's iron defences, so that maybe Cas will believe him someday. 

 

He doesn’t want Cas to regret this. To regret a holiday when he could’ve better spent that time and money on his transformation. He also knows that Cas will never see it that way because, as much as Dean loves him, every single inch and atom of him, Cas remains short-sighted and stubborn in Dean-related matters. A Dean-shaped blindspot. Dean wishes he didn’t take more than he gives, but he’s ill-equipped to balance the scales without saying something and putting his foot in it and making Cas unhappy anyway. 

 

So he shuts his mouth and pushes down his bullshit somewhere even Cas can’t detect it. Dean drops his head and mumbles, “Okay.”

 

Cas stays on his computer and Dean wants nothing more than to steal Cas’s warmth, lean into his hard lines, and talk about their road trip until the sun comes up. 

 

But Cas’s slump is rigid and he doesn’t look at Dean. So Dean goes to bed, asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. 


	5. 2025

Castiel fuckin’ Novak. There he is, standing right on Dean’s doorstep. Dean’s not sure whether this counts as a dream come true or a living nightmare. He maybe takes a little too long to answer Cas’s greeting, but Cas remains still and waiting anyway. Polite. It’s eerie. 

 

“Cas, I- ” he starts to choke out. 

 

“Sorry for not calling in advance, but I didn’t have much to unpack and thought we might as well get the introductions over and done with,” Cas rattles off. He’s so… stiff. 

 

Dean raises an eyebrow, “Introductions?”

 

“An initial discussion of our potential project,” Cas tilts his head, “Did Ms. Hanscum not brief you on my arrival?”

 

“She said you were coming tomorrow.”

 

“Well, I’m here now,” Cas says, redundantly. Dean can’t help but rake his eyes over this semi-robotic Cas, how different he looks. How much he hasn’t changed, too. He has a tired-looking five o’clock shadow coming in, barely maintained. Dean remembers when they cracked open a couple beers when he’d sprouted his first chin hairs. 

 

If anything, he’s curated a real hot English professor look, incorporating his old layering look; coat on (charmingly ugly) sweater on collared shirt. His shoes are scuffed. He’s not wearing his tan trench coat. Dean panics. Of course he isn’t wearing his trench coat. 

 

Dean rushes past him, “Y-You wanna come in?”

“Sure.”

 

Before Cas can get a first look around, Dean grabs the stolen trench coat off the hanger and throws it into the hamper, just barely getting it out of sight. Fortunately, Cas is slow to follow him in. 

 

When Dean’s heart rate has settled somewhat, he watches Cas survey his home. It’s surreal, the way he makes this empty place seem more full just by walking in. Dean feels his chest constrict with pressure, like his regret has gotten up from its usual spot in his gut to squat right on his ribs. 

 

“You have a lovely home,” Cas’s voice sounds very faraway, or maybe that’s just Dean’s imagination. What the fuck should he say? What _can_ he say? ‘Hey, I know we haven’t spoken in seven years, but I’ve missed you every single day since, you want a cup of coffee’? Fuck. 

 

“Yeah, IKEA’s really upped its game in recent years,” he jokes instead, because he’s a goddamn coward sonuva-

 

“I’m sure. Well, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to get preliminary ideas out,” he pulls a weathered notebook out of his coat pocket and flicks through it. “I know that you’re the writer, but I have some initial seeds that you could help me… nurture, so to speak.”

 

“Sounds good,” Dean swallows, “You want me to take your coat or something?”

 

Cas pulls it closer around himself, “I’ll keep it on, thank you. This shouldn’t take long.”

 

Dean puts his hands up, showing Cas to the kitchen island. Dean sits. Cas remains standing. 

 

“First, I thought I might ‘pitch’ myself to you, what sort of work I like to do, what styles I tend to draw and genre of graphic novels I’ve worked on,” he looks through his phone, finding pictures that act as a portable portfolio. “Although I did some commercial work for Image and Dark Horse, even within more kitchen sink stories, I like to inject some level of surrealism, which is probably why Ms. Hanscum thought of us to collaborate.”

 

“I remember,” Dean murmurs, which is clearly the wrong thing to say. Cas practically flinches. 

 

“You’re familiar with my work?”

 

Dean feels like maybe it’s too hot in here, “No, Cas, from- ”

 

“I would prefer if you called me Castiel,” he bites, not looking at Dean. It’s a blow to the gut, but what can Dean do? The layers of hypocrisy it would take for him to justify getting angry at Cas- Castiel… well, his impressive denial skills can only stretch so far. 

 

“Right, I- Sorry, man,” Dean trails off, “I interrupted you. Go on.”

 

Castiel sighs and, for a moment, leans on the kitchen island. For that singular moment, Dean thinks that he might drop this bullshit and scream at Dean, demand an explanation for everything, get righteously angry, get Dean to beg for forgiveness. It would be easier than this tension that refuses to burst. But Castiel only uses the island as a touchstone before returning to rigidity. 

 

“I can just… type it up and send you a PDF, honestly. It might be easier, I’m not very good at expressing myself in person,” and he says it so matter-of-factly like it isn’t a crumb of vulnerability that Dean hasn’t earned. To make matters worse, he wipes a hand over his face and chuckles to himself, “This is…”

 

He lets out a quick exhale and picks his notebook back up. Dean follows the movement, “Castiel?”

 

“We can resume this tomorrow, yes?”

 

Dean doesn’t want to resume this. He wants to dig himself a hole, maybe six feet deep, maybe more, and bury himself in clotting earth so he never has to see or do anything again. “Sure. Lunch?”

 

“Great,” Castiel breathes, turning away and letting himself out, and the tension stretches like a swollen cyst. “See you then.”

 

And he’s gone. Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

 

What the fuck _was_ that? Is that just… how they are now? Fuck. _Fuck._

 

Dean calls Sam, his hands trembling. 

 

_“This is Sam, and if you’re hearing this message, I’m buried under a pile of depositions! Leave a message at the beep and I’ll get back t’ya!”_

 

BEEP! Dean ends the call. 

 

Why would Castiel come here? He didn’t want answers, he didn’t want to shout at Dean, he just… he just wants to collaborate. He knew it was Dean, he knew exactly which Dean it was, he must’ve known, and Donna-

 

Donna. 

 

“What’s up Dean-o?” she says, cheery but distracted.

 

He doesn’t mean for his voice to get so screechy, “Castiel Novak?!”

 

“… Yah? I know it’s a weird name, but comic book audiences really respond to it-”

 

“Cas! My Cas!” 

 

“Wh- Oh.”

 

“Yeah, oh! What the hell, Donna?!”

 

Donna sighs, “You didn’t read my email, didya, Dean?”

 

“I- Okay, maybe not, but- ”

 

“Since you didn’t bring it up in your last very loud phone call, I assumed you’d either buried the hatchet or maybe managed a scrap of professionalism,” she starts, her voice getting more monotone as she gets gradually more pissed. “Did he- What did he say to you?”

 

“Nothing, nothing, he- he introduced himself, he talked about what sort of work he likes to do, and he- he left,” he trails off. 

 

“Uh-huh. So sounds like one of youse is a functioning adult, which is always nice,” she drawls.

 

“Donna, this isn’t funny.”

 

“No, it isn’t Dean, it’s not exactly a rib-tickler, you actin’ like a real infant,” and that sure as hell shuts Dean up. “Listen, I’m not entirely unsympathetic. I don’t know what happened between youse two, and to be honest I don’t wanna. What I want is my client to produce something before I’m forced to drop him faster than a hot potato.”

 

Dean’s blood runs cold. “Right.”

 

“Sometimes there isn’t a problem, Dean. Sometimes people can move on, be adults, without there being some dramatic confrontation. Maybe you two can make this work… get some closure?” she sighs again, “But what the hell am I, your therapist? You don’t pay me enough, Dean. Make it happen. Call me if he tries to strangle you, I can give him tips.”

 

“Thanks, Donna.”

 

He hates it when she has a valid point. 

 

* * *

 

Dean hears banging at the door, urgent, insistent. He wrenches it open to find Castiel standing there, a storm across his face. “You’re an asshole, Dean Winchester.”

 

“I know, Cas, I’m sorry,” He pulls Cas in close. “I can’t promise it’ll be like before, but… God, Cas, I missed you, I missed you so much.”

 

Cas looks angry, but he still brings a hand up to Dean’s face, cupping his jaw. Dean leans into it before kissing his palm. 

 

“I hate you, Dean,” Cas breathes, “but I… I can’t…”

 

“I know,” Dean kisses him, hard and desperate. 

 

Cas kisses him back. He scrabbles his hands up Dean’s shirt, grabbing whatever piece of skin he can get, mouthing at Dean’s pulse, sucking marks onto his neck. “Fuck, Dean…”

 

“Cas- ”

 

“Dean…” Cas growls, pressing one last kiss at the hinge of Dean’s jaw, a ghost of where they started. 

 

Dean finishes jacking off with a choked-off sob. He wipes it off on his sheets, exhausted and hollow. He’s alone, as it is, as it should be. He’s a self-indulgent asshole, but he can still dream. 

 

“Fucking coward,” he whispers to himself, before turning over in his bed to watch the last of the day’s light burn away through his curtains. He won’t sleep tonight. 

 


	6. 2018

Dean feels a soft kiss to his forehead as he’s slowly starting to wake up, a whispered ‘see ya tonight’, and just like that the apartment is empty. He lies there, face buried in his pillow for as long as he can stand it, going over and over and over the events of the last two days. How he could’ve missed paying that damn bill. How he always knows what to say to piss Cas off. How he’s… he’s not doing so good. 

 

He checks over his bank balance, wondering if there’s anywhere in the world it’s not so expensive to live whilst also getting good internet service. After a distracting google search, he’s decided maybe he needs to stop spending his weekend excessively overthinking pointless bullshit, and at least invite company if he won’t stop. 

 

“‘Sup, nerd?” Charlie answers on the third ring. 

 

“You up for a Doctor Sexy sesh on skype?” 

 

“Oh, dude, I’m sorry, I have so much woo _oooork_ PSYCH, BITCH! Oh, your face, your beautiful face, you were seconds away from crying,” and she’s belly laughing before he can protest. 

 

“Alright, alright…” he grumbles as he waits for her to load it up on her end. He _has_ fucking missed her, although their skype dates are fortnightly. The last three years have been a tough transition from seeing her multiple times a day. He gets more regular calls from her mom than he does from her, but that’s to be expected, he guesses. 

 

“Ugh, I can’t believe they recast Dr. Piccolo again. They can only do the face-swapping ex machina so many times, Dean!” Charlie mimes throwing her (most likely stale) pretzels at her computer screen. 

 

Dean nods fervently, “And I feel like the writing’s worse, somehow? Like it’s at cult status, don’t they know people are tuning in for more than Dr. Sexy now? Dr. Ramirez is so clearly meant for him, it’s so dumb…”

 

“Okay, one, your shipping goggles suck, he’s clearly into Dr. Sparrow, and two, this is a twelve season show _and counting_ , if you want something to be heartfelt and Endgame, you’ve gotta wait for some epic hand-holding right at the last moment. Because that’s how we gays do things, eh, bud?” 

 

Dean almost chokes on his drink he’s laughing so hard, “Fuck off!”

 

They quieten down and as Charlie’s loading up the next episode, Dean asks, “So, speaking of the gay agenda, how’s Hannah?”

 

Charlie, for all her mouthing off, blushes deeply, “She’s good, we’re good asshole, whatever.”

 

“So, where’s the U-Haul? How many cats’ve you two got now?”

 

“It’s just the one and… his name’s Cathy,” she flips him off, “and I guess we’re like, fuckin’ living together and girlfriends and shit, I hate you so much, STOP LAUGHING AT ME!”

 

Dean can’t help it, “I’m just so happy for you! L-Living the dream, oh my god,” he gasps for air. 

 

“I’m gonna break into your precious domicile and draw vaginas all over your face if you don’t stop, don’t think I’m above it just ‘cause we’re all grown up and stuff,” she grins before letting something quieter and fonder settle on her face. “Y’know, I thought, um, thought that once we were in NYC together I’d get… ugh, this is gonna sound bad but uh… I thought I’d get… tired of her? Sick of spending so much time together?” She takes a deeper breath. Dean stays quiet. 

 

“Mmm-hmm?” he prompts after a little bit. 

 

“Look, I’m not like you. I know like, as soon as you met Cas, you two were like, fuckin’, in love and ready to get married in two seconds- ”

 

“I don’t remember it like that- ”

 

“But, I’m not like that! I’m not always so… certain about people. I only hitched up my trailer to you and Anna because you two passed several brutal tests of character over a series of time, over a decade! And I’m still constantly riddled with the possibility that you’re just fucking with me, that despite everything we’ve been through, everything you’ve stuck with me for, you might just up and leave me anyway, decide that, nope, you’ve clocked in enough hours at the Bradbury corporation and it’s time to cut ties- ”

 

Dean doesn’t mean for his voice to break, “Charlie.”

 

“Woah, woah, stop, I know, I know you love me to pieces, I’m just- this is my deal, okay? Chill a sec. Don’t do anything stupid to like prove yourself or whatever. I- Look, all I tangented, my bad, but my point is, I’m full of doubt about everyone in my life, but for the best people, the people I trust the most, they’re- I can look past my fear, right? And the thing is… Hannah has, somehow, made that list. In such a short time, I still- I’m terrified that she’ll stop loving me and leave me in the dust, but I still. Trust her. Is- fuck, this is gonna sound so cheesy, I’m already approaching lactose intolerance- ”

 

“Charlie, spit it out.”

 

“Ugh! Fine,” she takes a big breath, “is… that how you feel about Cas?”

 

Dean’s struck by that, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

 

“Just answer the damn question, Winchester.”

 

“I- Yeah. I think I felt like that a bit when I first met him. Still do a little bit, I s’pose, but we’ve been living together for like a year, so…” he trails off, and has a moment to think about it. How domestic they’ve become aside, Dean thinks of how when he wakes up to an empty apartment, it doesn’t make his stomach lurch like it did the first few weeks. How being alone doesn’t feel so lonely anymore, that he knows there’s an end in sight marked by a ‘see ya tonight’ whispered early in the morning. He can’t help but smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I trust him not to abandon me,” he snorts like it’s obvious, “I mean, I love him, so?”

 

Charlie makes a disgusted, or maybe distraught face, “You just SAY it, like OUT LOUD and stuff? People could hear you!”

 

“Do you want to get back to fictionalised romantic drama or do you wanna stick with your own?”

 

“Oh, no, NO, now you have to divulge some romance bullshit, you’re not getting out of it that easy. What’s going on with Cas?”

 

Dean audibly gulps, “Well…”

 

“Oh, shit, are you guys okay? Aren’t you like, the poster children for ridiculously perfect relationships?”

 

“No, yeah, we’re good, it’s just…” and he doesn’t know the protocol here; not that he’s never complained about Cas before, he’s just as susceptible to leaving dirty laundry everywhere and putting his paints in inconvenient footpaths around the apartment, but this current thing feels more adult. Too serious to whine about to Charlie over skype. 

 

“Is it the money stuff?”

 

“How did you-?!”

 

“Oh, well, uh, Cas mentioned it in his skype date with Hannah last night and uh… she might’ve mentioned it,” and Dean can’t help but groan at that; of COURSE Hannah takes Cas’s side! “Don’t make that face, Hannah’s concerned that Cas is being stubborn- ”

 

“She’s right, he is!” he bursts, and it feels like a dam breaking, “He won’t let me help him, then he digs into his own money like he’s not saving for something important, and then he gets mad at me for reminding him, and isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Aren’t I meant to keep him grounded, steady, remind him that this is something he’s been wanting for years?”

 

Charlie looks at him strangely, “Woah, Dean, have-have you actually talked about this with him, or nah?”

 

Dean looks to his lap, “I don’t wanna argue.”

 

“I… get that, but. I dunno, man, I’m no fuckin’ expert, I thought monogamy was for wusses and straight people until a couple years ago, but… I dunno. Think you should still try and talk to the guy.”

 

“It’s just money, right? It shouldn’t make me this stupid,” Dean wrings his hands over the back of his neck, feeling the pressure. 

 

“Money makes everyone stupid, Dean, but if you want I can hack his even stupider family for those sweet crispy stacks o’green,” she says evilly, waggling her fingers as she cackles a bit. 

 

“Whaddya mean?”

 

“I mean, Cas’s family are loaded. That’s what Hannah was also telling me yesterday, and what I was gonna relay to you, if you hadn’t interrupted all abrupt and dudely,” she accompanies this dismissal with a wave of her hand. 

 

“Sorry,” he chews his lip, “hold off on the hacking though. Can you get me a number, instead?”

 

Charlie squints at him through her camera, “Why?”

 

“Figure I could pay them a visit,” he says offhandedly. 

 

“In the words of my favourite space-farin’ gays, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

 

“Pipe down, Solo, I’m not going in guns blazing, I just wanna… chat.”

 

“That’s exactly what the bad feeling is, dingus,” she says, but she emails him the number instead. 

 

They continue with the marathon until Hannah gets back, and Dean writes the number down in his diary so he won’t forget. 


	7. 2025

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for: detailed description of a panic attack!

Dean didn’t really think about how strange it would be occupying the same area code as Castiel for the first time in years, let alone the same space, and he’s wondering what their dynamic on this project will be. Lo and behold, on his way to Jody’s to wake himself up, he sees Castiel just. Walking around his town. And sure, it’s not like he’s made much of an effort to actually get to know anyone here beyond polite grunts and mutual affirmations of existence, but dammit, it’s still _his_ town.

 

So he does what any self-respecting territorial dude does when he spots his ex out and about: he hides behind a bush. 

 

He watches Castiel take in the cherry blossom trees, the charming street signs, the antiquated weather vane on the top of the high school. He even - for fuck’s sake - grins as he takes his phone out and takes a picture of it. Shit goddamn, how is Dean meant to handle all this?

 

He slinks through a back way, around some of the less seemly areas (even though it’s still provincial as hell), to come around an alternate way, ready to take his usual seat at Jody’s, maybe commiserate before he has to confront-

 

Castiel. The sonuvagun got here first.

 

“Dean, there’s a seat over here, get it while it’s open,” Jody calls out lazily without even looking at him, which of course causes Castiel to sit up, back ramrod straight, before presumably returning to something nonchalant. How is it Dean’s still so attuned to his body language after seven years apart? 

 

Oh, wait. Shit. 

 

“Sure that’s the only place, Jody?” he calls out.

 

“‘Less you wanna perch on the roof, I suggest you sit yourself down, kid,” she finally swivels her look over at him like he’s sort of an idiot, which would be a pretty fair assessment at this point. 

 

So he bites the bullet and sits down right next to Castiel. If he shifted even a little to his right, their thighs would connect, hip to knee. He really has to fight not to shift a little to his right. 

 

“So, Castiel, how you findin’ Chester?” he tries as Jody immediately slams his coffee down and rushes off. 

 

Castiel shrugs. “I’ve barely been here a day, but it seems… nice.”

 

“Ah, ‘nice’, the enemy of writers everywhere,” Dean jokes, but Castiel just seems to look back down at his half-eaten bagel. 

 

“Since you’re the writer, I think we’ll be fine if I remain more reserved in my expressions,” Castiel mentions, and he says it so matter-of-fact, anyone else would miss the frost on top. 

 

Dean audibly gulps, “Right. Sorry.”

 

Castiel shrugs again, “Doesn’t matter.”

 

Words catch themselves in Dean’s throat, desperate to make conversation, terrified of saying something wrong again, something stupid. He’s always so stupid. 

 

Even in the morning rush, Dean feels like they’re the only two there, and it’s… stifling. He can’t breathe. Oh, shit, oh _shit,_ he can’t breathe. He wraps his fingers around his mug of coffee, and even through the mug he can feel the heat coming off of it, hoping it’ll burn his skin right off, hoping it’ll ground him in something painful and real. 

 

Suddenly he feels hot coffee splash over the rim, his hands shaking enough to almost crack his mug in half. He let’s go. He’s got his hands out on the counter in front of him. He counts his fingers (they’re still shaking), and he slaps a five next to Cas's- Castiel’s plate. He walks out. He needs some air. He just needs a little bit of air. If he could just get some air-

 

“Dean?”

 

There’s a hand on his shoulder. Kids are filing into school. Rufus and his lawn. Pamela and-

 

“Dean, breathe.”

 

He’s breathing, isn’t he breathing? He puts his hand over his heart and feels all the blood rushing past his temples. No, maybe he wasn’t breathing, is he breathing now?

 

“Christ, Dean,” and he feels himself being led away from the bright pink of the cherry blossoms, the azure of the sky, the green of the town square’s grassy patches. He feels himself being drawn into darkness and his skin starts to cool down. 

 

Colder hands frame his face and things start to come back into play. Those are Castiel’s hands, right on his face, rasping against his early morning stubble. 

 

He just wants to put his hand over one of Castiel’s, but he’s got enough frame of mind to know he’s not allowed. “Castiel…”

 

“Yes, Dean,” he says, and fuck, his voice is so nice. “Are you with me?”

 

Not enough. “More or less.”

 

Castiel lets his hands fall but rests them on Dean’s arms, and it feels like he’s still holding him up by his touch. Slowly, Dean realises that they’re crouched in an alley, one of the less disgusting ones, and Castiel has made sure Dean has a wall at his back. Smaller spaces make him feel safer, especially feeling something solid to lean on. Dean almost cries. He remembered. 

 

“Thanks, Cas,” he whispers, his head flopping down to hide his face. 

 

He feels Castiel freeze up, then: “Can you stand?”

 

“Think so.”

 

No sooner does he say that, Castiel lets go, and it’s like Dean missed a step in the dark. He’s okay for the most part, but he feels unanchored. When he looks up, Castiel’s looking away. 

 

“We can work at yours, still, yes?” Castiel says, like there’s about fifty other things he’d rather do. 

 

Dean nods and leads the way.


	8. 2018

It’s a perfect warmth under their covers as Cas presses lazy kisses all over Dean’s (kinda pudgy, shut up) stomach. Dean cards his fingers through Cas’s messy morning curls and he’s certain this moment is up there, definitely at least in the top ten all-time greats. 

 

It’s a rare fourth Tuesday in their schedules where they both have (the majority) of the day off at the same time. Every single time, they pretend that they’ll do something new, like go to the park or a museum or some pottery class. Every single time they spend the whole day in bed, spoiling themselves with a meal that isn’t made up of a week’s worth of leftovers, and screwing like rabbits until they can barely stand any skin-on-skin contact. 

 

It’s still early in the day, thus that threshold has not yet been reached, hence: glorious, gratuitous tummy-kissing. 

 

Cas casually slips his hand up towards Dean’s chest, drawing slow circles over his far-too sensitive nipples, looking up at Dean. Just looking. 

 

Dean huffs a laugh, “What? Somethin’ on my face?”

 

“Nope,” Cas says, and Dean loves when his voice pitches low and gentle like that, his eyes lidded like that, like he would spend the rest of their lives in this bed if he could. 

 

“There’s gotta be somethin’,” Dean teases. 

 

Cas places the tip of his finger on Dean’s bottom lip and Dean stills, feeling his gut go liquid. Cas gently strokes his finger across that lip, left and right, like a swinging pendulum. 

 

“Open,” he asks, and Dean lets his lips part. Dean watches Cas watching his own fingers, two now, slide into Dean’s mouth. Dean feels spit pool and spill but he’s fixated on that look on Cas’s face, the one that wants him so completely, so certainly, in a way Dean knows no one will ever want him again. 

 

He hears himself pant around Cas’s fingers going in and out, shallow but undeniable. 

 

“Dean,” Cas moans, voice cracking as Dean spots his other hand down his boxers. Cas screws his eyes shut and traces his fingers over Dean’s spit-slick lips one more time before twisting his nipple and bucking on his fingers. Dean is mesmerised as Cas strains his neck to look at Dean. 

 

Dean can’t help but kiss him. He feels like Cas’s moans vibrate through his jaw. Dean gently pulls away to kiss at Cas’s neck and he feels the jolt of him coming underneath his teeth. Cas breathes heavily and looks at Dean before cracking a huge grin and laughing. 

 

“That was! Well…” he hiccups, seeming embarrassed. Dean loves him, he loves him so much he could burst with it, and he kisses him hard enough to prove it. Cas pants against his mouth, “So you liked that, huh?”

 

Dean ruts his significant boner against Cas’s thigh, “Oh, this? This is just decoration.”

 

Cas lets out a quick bark of laughter at that, shoving Dean back with a new focus. He leans over Dean and kisses him, quick and teasing. “Is that so?”

 

He flattens his palm against Dean’s stomach, this time with purpose. Dean smiles and kisses Cas’s neck some more. Cas lets out a cut-off moan before taking Dean in hand and stroking him with just enough pressure to tease him but not enough to get him off. Dean whines and bucks his hips. 

 

“Not fair, man,” Dean breathes. Cas builds up his pace, meanwhile breathing shallowly, like he’s overcome by the sight of Dean coming apart in his hands. 

 

“Do you remember when I kissed you that first time?” Cas murmurs, “On your front porch, when we were still- still dancing around each other…”

 

Dean nods. He sort of can’t believe that Cas remembers that since he was super drunk at the time, but he doesn’t interrupt. He can’t, his voice would come out strangled and wanting. 

 

“You were so, so beautiful, the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen in my life,” he drawls, like he’s remembering how drunk he was, like he’s intoxicated by the memory. “Oh, Dean…”

 

“Cas,” he manages, his hips stuttering. He’s not quite there, but he’s close. The sound of Cas’s voice just does that to him. 

 

“You said- you said whatever I needed, you had my six,” he sighs, pulling back the sweat on Dean’s forehead. His eyes are clear and deep and blue. “It made me brave. It made me want you, Dean. All I needed was you.”

 

Dean feels his chest go tight, his hands desperately clawing at their sheets. “I’d give you anything, Cas, anything-! Fuck, _fuck_ , Cas…”

 

Cas’s breath hitches a little, closing his eyes, “I have everything, Dean. I have you.”

 

Dean comes with a grunt and a long, drawn-out, almost embarrassing cry, grasping and clawing at Cas. “Cas, Cas-“

 

“Dean,” he whispers, and he kisses Dean. He feels his own name like a promise. 

 

Dean finally relaxes against the bed and looks over at Cas, a sheen of sweat covering both their skin like a second layer. He looks at the band-aid over Cas’s thumb from where he cut himself getting vegetables ready yesterday. He looks at the skin irritation just under Cas’s ear since his shifts got muddled up every day for the last week or two. He looks at the spots just under his chin, shaving rash or not drinking enough water. Dean looks at Cas long before he realises Cas is looking at him, too. 

 

Cas gives him that small, private smile that feels like it’s just between them. He opens his arms and Dean can’t say no. He grabs onto Cas’s middle and breathes out deeply. Cas strokes his hand over Dean’s head, holding onto him tightly even though they both stink, even though they’re both hot and gooey and tired. 

 

Dean doesn’t know and doesn’t care how long it takes for them to get up for some lunch. Dean decides to order in, fuck it. Cas’s eyes shine and he collapses dramatically onto the couch to watch whatever weird youtube video his subscriptions suggest. Dean leans in against him quietly, just soaking up Cas’s crazy body heat. 

 

When the pizza comes, Dean’s so dopey he tips well over 20% and he doesn’t care. They barely talk the rest of the day but Dean feels a rare sense of completion. After a while, Cas drags him to the bedroom for round seven or something (who cares about keeping count anymore?) and Dean follows him. He’d follow him anywhere, and Cas knows it. 

 

* * *

 

The day’s over too soon, and Cas has to head to a shitty 4am shift. He kisses Dean soundly and Dean doesn’t mean to sidetrack him, but he also can’t help but drag Cas onto his lap. Can’t help but run his hands all over him, under his shirt, hear Cas moan. 

 

“I’ll be back at six,” he whines, “stop being an assbutt.” 

 

“Who, me?” 

 

“I hate - loathe, despise, detest - leaving you here,” Cas promises. He tilts Dean’s chin up for another long kiss. “Trust me.”

 

“Fuck,” Dean breathes. He shakes his right hand, commiserates with it, “Just you and me, then, pal. Just like old times.”

 

Cas thumps him over the head with a pillow and a laugh. When Dean hears the click of the door he hasn’t moved from his spot. 

 

He looks in his diary and sees that illicit phone number. He’s got to. He’s got to do this, even if Cas ends up hating him. Anything, he promised. Will always promise. 

 

* * *

 

_“Hello? Who’s speaking?”_

 

“Hi, it’s um, it’s- you don’t know me, but I know your nephew. Castiel,” he stresses, “Chuck’s son?”

 

There’s silence on the other line, then: _“What is it you want?”_

 

“To talk,” Dean says, “that’s all.” He feels his skin crawl. 

 

_“The Radisson, on 5th. Tomorrow, 1pm sharp. We won't extend the same favour twice.”_

 

Dean hears the dial tone like it’s a physical thing in his home. He hangs up quickly, his hands shaking. 

 

He’s doing the right thing. 

 


	9. 2025

There’s an uncomfortable tension that comes with Dean remembering what it feels like to have Castiel’s hands on his face. Or, not remembering, but clarifying through that fleeting moment to realise that Castiel has distinct callouses now. That it’s not the ghost of how he used to touch Dean because that Castiel has been shed away. Dean follows Castiel to his own place, watching his back, his forceful movements. Even the way he carries himself now is- it’s hard to look at directly. He’s grown so much.

 

Dean lets them into his place and he immediately raids his cupboards for something instant and caffeinated. The kettle bubbles and Dean heaps a couple spoonfuls into his mug as Castiel seats himself at the kitchen island like he’s always sat there. Like it’s his spot. 

 

“Should you be drinking that so soon after-?”

 

“So your pitch? You never sent it,” Dean interrupts, because he’ll be damned if he’ll let Castiel try to lecture him in his own home. He has some pride left. 

 

Castiel shuffles uncomfortably, “I- realised last night, that perhaps context would be easier if I… said it. To you,” he finishes looking down at his lap, hooking his fingers together. Dean wonders if that’s nervousness or avoidance.

 

“Well, then. Go ahead, I’m all ears,” he says, leaning against his sink. He realises he’s bracing himself. 

 

Cas takes out the notes on his phone and reads, without much intonation. “Right, well, it’s a- well, it’s a sort of horror story, about a young man that- his… lover has died. But he refuses to accept it. And flies start manifesting in his home and he can’t figure out where they’re coming from. He searches the whole place, obsessively cleans, doesn’t leave the house, but there are still swarms of flies always surrounding him, and they’re growing in volume. It’s like there’s a plague following him. So he leaves the house and still, the flies follow him and, um, well, this is a stylistic thing, but- what I imagined was that he goes to his… partner’s grave and removes his rotting heart and walks away, from the heart, the lover and the flies. The decay.”

 

Dean’s arms have locked up where he leans on them. The kettle whistles, but he doesn’t move. 

 

Castiel finally looks up at him for a moment, “And that’s- that’s the end,” he finishes. 

 

He looks back at his lap and Dean looks at him. “Fuck, man, that’s…”

 

“I know, it’s rough and- ”

 

“What the hell do you need me for?” Dean says. 

 

Finally Castiel looks up and tilts his head, “I- Donna said it’s a good concept but it lacks drive or, um, story. That I have the basics but it needs to be fleshed out. But I don’t know how to do that.”

 

Dean moves at last, coffee forgotten and rips off the first page of the nearest notebook to get a fresh one and a pen. Every hair on his body feels like they’re standing on end and he smiles awkwardly at Castiel, ready to write. 

 

“Let’s figure it out.”

 

* * *

 

After about an hour and a half of intense discussion, they’re still arguing about the protagonist of the story.

 

“I just don’t think all these details are necessary, Dean!” Castiel protests, head leaned over and doodling while Dean tries to actually work. This is what he hates about non-literary artists; they assume they know best and that writing’s easier than it looks. 

 

“Details about the character - since you’re clearly aiming for a character-driven story - will help the plot be less generic, more attuned to the journey of the character!”

 

“Well, shouldn’t we work out the journey first and then see how it changes the character?”

 

“You already have the basic arc, I’m trying to build on that and get to the protagonist so we can tell a more specific story!”

 

They’re both frustrated and breathing hard, but Castiel relents (finally). “Fine. Well. What should we know about the character?”

 

“We can start off with his external want versus internal need-” Castiel thunks his head on the counter with a groan, and Dean’s losing patience. “What?!”

 

“Why can’t my art speak for itself?!”

 

“Because if you want to explore sequential art, you’re going to have to nail down the basic pillars of narrative, dumbass!”

 

“FINE, ASSBUTT!”

 

It’s such a blast from a past that’s long gone that Dean almost laughs, but his frustration boils over, “What is your problem with your own protagonist, why don’t you want to flesh him out?”

 

Castiel continues to doodle, “I- It’s nothing.”

 

“You’ve been wasting my time because it’s nothing?”

 

“This is a collaborative affair, Dean, discussions are not a waste of time,” Castiel glowers, and he puts his pen down and puts his doodling aside, thank fuck. “Okay.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Don’t rush me.”

 

Dean sighs. “Not rushing you.” 

 

He gets up to get some water, splashing some on his face. He can’t believe he forgot how explosively stubborn Castiel could be, especially when he himself was just as much of an ass when he gets invested in things. 

 

“He’s an artist,” Castiel says quietly as his back’s turned. He continues not to face him. 

 

“He’s an artist, what medium?”

 

“… Oil paintings. He used to draw his partner, who would model for him, but now- ”

 

“So it’s an artistic loss, too?”

 

“He’s lost his muse,” Castiel says. Dean’s heart sinks. 

 

“How did the partner die?” Dean probes. This is the most progress they’ve made today, but it feels too delicate. 

 

He can practically hear Castiel chewing his bottom lip in thought, “The partner died because… because he was cheating on the artist. He was on his way to someone else, and he got hit by a truck. A car. No, no a truck,” Castiel murmurs, and Dean hears scribbling. He also hears a faint ringing in his ears, and his vision sways.

 

“Did the protagonist know?”

 

“No.”

 

“Does he find out?”

 

“Hmm. Yes, he finds out and that intensifies the flies.”

 

“Cheating, death, hallucinations… It’s a lot to put on one guy.”

 

“Not like it doesn’t happen in real life,” Castiel drops and Dean feels a chill dip low in his stomach. 

 

Dean swallows around rising bile, “Right.”

 

But Castiel, he’s on a roll now. “The partner seemed to be perfect, but- but he never really loved the artist, which is why the artist’s heart is rotting.”

 

“Why would the partner stay so long if he didn’t love the artist?”

 

“Guilt? A sense of duty? What do you think?”

 

“I think maybe the partner loved the artist, but this isn’t my story.”

 

Castiel’s breath hitches behind him. “Isn’t it?”

 

Dean can’t bear it. He turns around and he can feel the horror pull his features into something taut and angry. “You really think that?”

 

“Who cares what I think, it’s done now,” Castiel says flippantly, back to fidgeting. 

 

“I care, I want to know-”

 

“You don’t have a right to that information anymore, Dean!” Castiel snaps. 

 

Dean feels his ribs tighten around his lungs. “Right. Got it. You got everything you need, we can, uh- pick this up again tomorrow.”

 

Castiel, for a moment, looks concerned, and right now Dean feels low and dirty and undeserving. “I’m-”

 

“Don’t say you’re sorry when you’re not. I’m fine, I’m a big boy. I can handle creative differences. Just- think about these characters. Maybe bring some character designs or something.”

 

Castiel grips his pen tightly, “Alright. Tomorrow, then.”

 

Dean doesn’t see him out. He hears the door close and lets out a long-held breath. 

 

His hands shake as he takes his phone out. 

 

**+913 897 4356**

 

Come over.

 

**+203 659 1272**

 

What, no please? ;)

 

**+913 897 4356**

 

10 mins.

 

* * *

 

 

Samandriel rides him hard and fast, bracing himself on Dean’s chest. He whines and throws his head back. Dean reckons he learned that from watching too much porn. Or worse, romantic comedies. 

 

“Dean, fuck, oh, fuck, you’re so-!” One good thrust punches the breath out of him and he moans long and low, a more honest sound. “Fuck, you’re so deep…”

 

Dean’s mesmerised by those pink lips, bitten raw. He thumbs over Samandriel’s nipple and that elicits another whine. But Dean’s getting impatient. 

 

He throws Samandriel over and plows into him relentlessly, carefully placing his hand on Samandriel’s neck and lightly choking him. Samandriel screws his eyes shut and grins mad like he can see God. 

 

Dean buries himself into him and tries to lose his thoughts inside this pliant body but it’s not working. It never works. At least one of them is happy. 

 

He latches his lips onto Samandriel’s shoulder and bites and sucks, letting a growl build up in the back of his throat. He imagines dark hair, a small star-shaped scar he used to lick over, eyes that are blue with challenge and something hidden instead of open admiration and worship. 

 

“Cas,” he breathes, voice breaking as he comes. His hips stutter to a stop. 

 

He rolls over and realises he has Samandriel’s come on his stomach. Huh. When did that happen?

 

Samandriel snuffles next to him and Dean uncovers his eyes for a moment to look at him. “Who’s Cas?”

 

Dean sighs, “No one, kid.”

 

Samandriel looks like he’s biting back tears, “I- I know we’re not… exclusive or anything but…”

 

He sits up with a start, clambering out of bed and shifting uncomfortably. Dean looks at him and something seizes in his chest, something hateful and unjust. “Where are you going?”

 

“You care?” he says, and it’s too reminiscent. 

 

Dean slides out of bed and grabs Samandriel by the wrist and pulls him in to him. He looks deep into his eyes and angles his jaw up. He feels old. He feels tired. He feels so fucking lonely. 

 

He takes two thick fingers and traces them over Samandriel’s lips. He feels the guy sigh brokenly. He gently probes one digit into Samandriel’s plush mouth and Samandriel sucks. He closes his eyes and sucks and licks like he’s trying to be arousing and Dean feels guilt rise in him like a wave. It’s not the same, anyway. 

 

He pulls his fingers away and cups Samandriel’s jaw, trying to be gentle, trying to be fairer. “Why do you come here, sweetheart?”

 

Samandriel trembles in his grip. “Because you ask me,” he whispers. Tears fall down his face without ceremony and Dean kisses them away. He kisses Samandriel’s mouth without taking before he seizes up on his toes and wraps his arms around Dean’s neck. 

 

He’s desperate, he wants so desperately and Dean knows it too. He knows that bone deep emptiness, but this has to be the last time. He can’t ruin anyone else. 

 

Samandriel starts to sink to his knees, still crying and Dean pulls him up. “C’mere.”

 

He drags Samandriel into bed and pulls him on top of his chest, stroking his hair. They’re quiet, just listening to the afternoon birds. 

 

“Did I do something wrong?” Samandriel murmurs. 

 

“Me, for starters,” Dean jokes. He traces circles on Samandriel’s back. “You should go talk to those nice Harvard boys, instead.”

 

Samandriel hums and kisses Dean’s chest. “What about you?”

 

“What about me?”

 

Samandriel doesn’t say anything else. Instead he cups Dean’s face and kisses him a little more sweetly. “One more go?”

 

Dean chuckles and strokes lines down his back. “How about some food?”

 

He prepares lunch and they talk, for hours, about nothing in particular. Dean feels a painful lump in his throat when he sees how Samandriel gazes at him like a young man infatuated. He can’t, in good conscience, let them continue like this, no matter how much he’ll miss the removed sense of intimacy, the only one kind he lets himself have anymore. He won’t. Samandriel doesn’t deserve to be dragged lowly so Dean can feel less alone. 

 

Yet, when Samandriel crawls back into his bed later that night, Dean let’s him curl into his chest. One more night couldn’t hurt, right?


	10. 2018

Dean steps into the Radisson’s lobby and already feels like everyone in the room can see his annual income and wants to spit at his feet for it. Is spitting too lowbrow or too highbrow these days? Either way, he’s rubbing his sweaty palms on his nicest jeans and trying to not look too much like he’s just wandered in here accidentally. 

 

He checks the clock on the wall- yep, 12:45. He’s early. Should he wait? Should he ask if the guy’s there already? Why do movies make these weird occasions look so nonchalant?

 

A guy in a black shirt and a small moustache approaches him with a smile, like he’s about to throw him out but in a nice way. 

 

“Mr. Winchester?” He asks and Dean tries to nod at a regular pace but he can’t remember what that looks like anymore. “Right this way, sir.” 

 

Dean follows the guy through the beet-red curtains into a lounge-ish area. Dean’s looking around but they keep walking, past the bar and tables full of people talking with briefcases, or people with mile-long legs speaking very closely to one another. They’re still walking and Dean wonders if maybe he is being thrown out. 

 

Finally he’s led to a door which the guy opens for him and as soon as he does, Dean wants to go back to the main lounge area. Nice and big, full of witnesses. 

 

“Come in, Mr. Winchester,” Cas’s uncle beckons. His slicked-back blonde hair and piercing blue eyes match his sharp suit. His shirt is worth more than half a year’s rent. This guy’s probably never not paid his bills on time. He probably pays someone to do that. Dean walks into the room. 

 

Cas’s uncle smiles, “I hope I’m not going to have to instruct you on every move you make. Sit.”

 

The door swings shut behind Dean. He sits down on the leather chair on his side of the table. 

 

He feels regarded, like every look this guy gives him sees right through him. “You wanted to talk?”

 

“Sure, um, Mr. Novak- ”

 

“Bartholomew.”

 

“Right, Bartholomew. I- I get the sense that you and Cas - Castiel - haven’t talked in a while, but uh,” Dean’s hands are shaking as hard as voice, but he pushes a self-deprecating smile onto his face anyway, “He’s kind of a stubborn guy, and we’re in need of, um…”

 

He looks at Bartholomew, who hasn’t moved an inch, and realises how crass this request is gonna sound at the exact moment it’s too late to backpedal and because Bartholomew had probably guessed what this ‘talk’ would be about as soon as Dean opened his mouth. 

 

“Money,” he finishes, his mouth elastic around the word. He doesn’t stop smiling. 

 

“Yes, but I- I’m willing to work for it. Sir,” Dean feels like he’s tripping over his own tongue. 

 

Bartholomew looks Dean over slowly. He leans forward and yet, even with his back hunched, he still seems taller than Dean. 

 

“How much do you know about our family, Dean?” he asks.

 

Dean feels sweat bead at his brow, “Well, uh, Cas doesn’t talk much about any of you, just that, um… that his dad was sort of… the disgraced son, I guess? And Naomi and Zachariah didn’t like that Cas is- Cas,” and suddenly the thought occurs to him, “and if you aren’t okay with Cas being Cas then I’m outta here, you got that?”

 

“Oh, no, not in the slightest, I have no interest in my nephew’s private life. I’d prefer if he were not… quite so complicated, but I can work with it. It’s easy enough to airbrush,” he smiles. 

 

“Okay. Okay, so… we- he needs money to complete his transition. I’m not enough, I can’t afford all of it and I- I want him to have everything he needs, and I can’t do that, so,” he shifts in his seat, feeling his heart pull at his ribs. His gut, his whole body’s screaming at him to leave but he can’t. He can’t let Cas scrape by on shitty meals, can’t watch him slave away at a job that drains him and prevents him from doing what he loves, can’t let Cas chip away at his future just so they can keep the internet on. 

 

Bartholomew won’t stop fucking smirking, like this is all amusing to him. “Right, well, I can do that.”

 

Huh. “That easy, huh?”

 

“Oh, no, of course not Dean, there’s no such thing as a free meal,” he picks up his glass of whiskey, letting it swirl a little. “I prefer to keep my business in the family, and Castiel is the only heir within my family that has a brain between his ears, if not the greatest sense of prudence. Everyone rebels a little, and I’m happy to give him some leeway, but it’s time he came home. It’s time he paid his dues. So if he wants me to pay, he will have a significant debt to pay. Do you understand?”

 

Dean feels it over, trying to imagine Cas happy but unfulfilled in some way. His brow wrinkles, “What do you mean?”

 

“Being a man in this business, if anything, is a boon. Being gay is not. So I am willing to compromise.”

 

Dean’s heart sinks. 

 

“I want you to leave him, Dean, if you can. Stay away from him, let me mould him into something great, and he’ll be happier than you could’ve ever made him,” he says, putting the glass down and sliding it across to Dean. 

 

The shake in Dean’s voice is back with a vengeance, “You can’t fucking do that.”

 

“I know, what gall I have, demanding something for nothing. Oh wait, no, _I’m_ offering complete coverage of Castiel’s medical bills and transition. What is it that you are offering me, Dean? What is it that you offer?”

 

The room feels tilted on its axis, like he’s stepped into a world that’s not his own anymore. He doesn’t remember opening the door, or stumbling through the lounge, only the moment that he breathes fresh air into his lungs. 

 

He looks in hand and sees Bartholomew’s card. He wants to throw it away. He puts it in his pocket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so we're crystal clear folks: i am in NO WAY SHAPE OR FORM trying to imply that being gay is inherently harder than being trans or vice versa. this particular character is a piece of shit and that's how he thinks the world works.


	11. 2025

With the covers drawn over Dean's head, his arms full of a warm body holding back, he can pretend he's back in his shitty apartment in Michigan, the drowsy early start to a work day, a rare moment to be with-

 

“Cas..."

 

Alfie stirs, waking up, “Hm?"

 

Dean hears knocking at the door and suddenly he's wide awake. 

 

“Shit, shit!” 

 

He almost falls out of bed, and he’d laugh at himself if his heart wasn’t hammering away in his chest. How did he sleep so long? 

 

Tripping on his pants, anything to cover up his boxers and his dick hanging out, he doesn’t see the confused look on Alfie’s face.

 

“What- what are you doing?”

 

Fuck. Alfie. Dean takes one glance at him and realises how fucking bad this is gonna look to whoever’s downstairs. He’s kidding himself, of course. He knows exactly who it is. 

 

He looks around his room for potential emergency exits and eyes the window on the right, with the blossom tree hanging out within arm’s length. He’s panicked enough to stand by and gesture to Alfie, who by this point has realised that Dean’s not interested in cuddling anymore. 

 

He carefully pulls on his clothes, picking them up slower than Dean can even imagine people are capable of moving. He only considers pushing the guy out of the window for a moment. 

 

“Y’gotta get outta here, kid, seriously, go!”

 

Alfie barely finishes zipping up his jeans, still looking criminally ruffled. He looks at Dean with a sharp glint in his eye, on the verge of pouting. 

 

“Don’t be crazy!” he protests, picking up his wallet. 

 

He heads out of the room and Dean breathes a sigh of relief until, with horror, he realises that he’s going for the front door. 

 

He jumps down the stairs two a time, more sprightly than he’s ever been in his life, desperately trying to outrun Alfie to the door, the front door, the door that his unwanted/wanted guest is waiting patiently at. 

 

“Please, please, Alfie- ” he hisses, “Please, at least take the back door!”

 

“No, what the hell, Dean- ”

 

He yanks open the door and there- There’s Castiel, bearing coffee, to boot. Dean would rather bury himself six feet under right that second than be standing here, his jaw on the floor as he looks between Castiel and Alfie giving him equal vibes of confusion and pre-emptive disappointment. 

 

“Oh. Hello,” Castiel clears his throat, just as awkward as Dean feels, maybe, “I’m Castiel. And you are?”

 

Dean can practically hear the dots connect in Alfie’s head when he hears that name. He’d heard Dean moan it into his neck plenty of times for it to have stuck. “On my way out. Bye, Dean,” Alfie mutters, tight grimace on his face. He doesn’t bother looking back at Dean before he leaves. Maybe it’s for the best. 

 

“Huh,” Castiel says, looking after Alfie’s retreating form. Does he see what Dean saw, when he first met the kid, just back from his freshman year at Harvard and wanting the touch of someone meaner, older? Could Dean see it, still? Or had he pulled that out of him?

 

“Don’t.”

 

“I didn’t say anything,” Cas puts his hand up, a sign of peace, as if he’s the one feeling vulnerable and exposed right now, “I, uh, brought coffee.”

 

Dean steps aside so he can come in, watching Castiel set the coffee down on the kitchen island, “Thanks.”

 

And now Dean feels like a terrible host, so he buries his bullshit and heads over to the fridge, carefully staying on the opposite side to Castiel. He makes sure they don’t make eye contact. He catches Castiel staring and realises too late that he has at least two fairly fresh hickeys at the base of his neck. He hides behind the fridge door. 

 

“You had breakfast?” he asks, casual as anything. 

 

He hears Castiel pull things out of his satchel, “No.”

 

“Would you like some? I could whip up some eggs, or- ” 

 

Castiel interrupts, “I’d rather just… get to work, actually,” 

 

“Look, Castiel- ” Dean starts. 

 

“It’s fine,” he’s got a nervous energy to him that he’s not hiding well, his pencils falling off in delayed succession off the marble countertop. He bends down to pick them up. 

 

So, of course, Dean matches that energy, tries to explain, “No, man, seriously, I- ”

 

“It’s been years.” There’s a quietness to it, despite him popping up from a crouch to say it. 

 

“I know,” Dean watches Castiel now, trying to make sense of the play here. Castiel huffs a little laugh and- yeah, Dean’s completely lost now. 

 

“It’s not like I expected you to take up monk-hood or something,” Castiel reasons, which is odd, considering how adamant he’s been about not mentioning their past, “and I- well.”

 

“What?”

 

“I almost got married last summer.”

 

Dean drops his spoon. Castiel doesn’t look at him. Married. Cas. Cas getting married? Was that part of Bartholomew’s creepy life-plan? Hitch him up to some girl, destine her for a life of beardhood? Why would Castiel have ever agreed to something like that? Has he changed so much? He’s pretty sure his panic is registering clear on his face so he’s sort of relieved that Castiel’s not looking at him right now. 

 

“Married? Like… married-married? In a church or, uh, city hall or-”

 

“If you’re asking whether or not it was a man, yes, it was, a man, a very nice and kind and handsome man asked me to marry him, and I said yes.”

 

“But then you said no,” Dean says, slowly. Easy does it. 

 

“Yes. Obviously,” Castiel waves his hands as if to show the lack of rings, wedding or otherwise. 

 

“H-How come?”

 

Castiel finally looks up at Dean. “I had said yes for the wrong reasons.”

 

“Cas- ” Dean knows his voice sounds strangled but he doesn’t care. Every time he looks at Cas it hurts again, but he can’t bear the thought of Cas going through all this without him. Because of him. Fuck. 

 

“Please don’t tell me you’re sorry, I doubt very much that you’d really mean it,” Castiel’s nervous energy is back and he’s smiling without humour, a sign that he’s- he’s holding on tight to something that needs space. 

 

“Of course I’m sorry, man,” Dean says, because he is, he never stopped being sorry-

 

“Why? Because you wanted to pawn me off on someone else? Because that boy’s younger and better than me? Because I- Fuck. Fuck, I wasn’t going to let you do this,” Castiel says, letting out a sliver of emotion before locking himself away again, the attempt at normal. He battens down the hatches, but it’s enough to trigger something desperate in Dean. 

 

“Let me do what?!”

 

“You tear me open so I can’t hide,” Castiel says, like it’s the worst quality to be open. 

 

“That used to be a good thing,” Dean argues and can’t he just be holding Cas already? Can’t they just be happy again?

 

“So were a lot of things…” Castiel says and he gets up, staring resolutely at the floor, “I just- need some air.”

 

“You just got here, man.”

 

“Yes, I suppose you just have that effect on me, Dean.”

 

Dean watches him leave.


	12. 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: reference to past transphobia

A few days after Dean’s let Bartholomew’s card burn in his pocket, and later between the pages of his journal, he lets it extinguish itself in his mind. It was a stupid idea, and he and Cas are solid. They don’t need any shit they don’t earn themselves, and the rest of the world can go fuck itself if it thinks they can be paid off. 

 

Cas sneezes, interrupting Dean’s train of thought. 

 

“Hm, I guess winter’s early this year,” Cas wonders out loud before sneezing again. 

 

Dean hums, tweaking some coverage for Donna and wishing that he was spending more time on improving his own work rather than reviewing other people’s (much better) writing weekend after weekend. 

 

“Dean, you okay?”

 

In answer, he leans over to Cas and kisses his forehead without taking his eyes off his screen. He hears Cas chuckle and try to suppress a shiver. 

 

“You feeling baloney?”

 

“We got anything else?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Then sure, baloney’s the best,” Dean grins. 

 

Cas puts the sandwich on the table in front of Dean and munches his own thoughtfully. 

 

“Are you happy, Dean?” Cas says, outta fuckin’ no-where and Dean looks over at him. 

 

Cas looks back, still eating. 

 

“Babe, yes, yes, I’m- Are you? You’re happy, right?” He feels like he might start crying. Is Cas not happy?

 

Cas’s eyes widen and he swallows his sandwich before shuffling over to Dean’s side, “Yes! Of course, I didn’t mean to make you upset!”

 

“I’m not upset,” Dean sniffles. 

 

Cas presses kisses all over his face, “I am so, so happy, Dean, I just-”

 

“Just what?” Dean clutches onto Cas’s t-shirt without a word and Cas regards him, careful even in the way that he looks at him. 

 

“You’ve seemed a little distant lately, I just assumed there was work stuff going on, maybe something to do with Sam,” Cas pushes Dean’s hair back, an absentminded move that prompts Dean to push back into the touch. “Just checking in with you.”

 

“I’m good,” Dean smiles, “don’t worry about me.”

 

* * *

 

Winter is relentless that year, and their savings plummet with the ridiculous heat bills. Dean watches Cas layer two sweaters on top of each other before huddling into his trusty trench-coat. 

 

When he catches Dean looking at him, he smirks. 

 

“Don’t worry, Dean. This is what I’ve been training for my entire adolescence. Now it’s finally my time to shine,” and he breaks into the biggest grin. Dean can’t help but smile back. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, call me when you get stuck in a doorway between here and work,” he snorts. 

 

As Cas leaves, Dean goes back over their expenses, desperately searching for a way to not completely bankrupt themselves this month. He decides he can sell some junk on eBay or something if worse comes to worst, but for now they’ll have to make do with cutting into their food budget a bit. They can manage. It’s okay.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Dean’s barging through hospital hallways to the emergency room. 

 

“CAS?”

 

He spots Cas hushing him and waving him over to where’s he’s sitting. Dean quietens down and goes over. 

 

“What the fuck happened?”

 

Cas shows off the make-shift cast the doctors put together on two of his fingers. “Freezer door caught me off guard, but man, has it got some dents in it to tell all its friends about,” he rattles off, deadpan as ever. “I’m fine, in fact I’m lucky.”

 

“You sure as hell don’t look lucky to me, bub,” Dean grumbles, gently looking over the bruises that have spread onto the knuckles of Cas’s left hand. 

 

“The doctor says that usually, in cases like this, more than likely the fingers die from extreme lack of oxygen and fall off, or, even more usual, they get severed right there and then,” he rambles and Dean’s not sure if there’s enough oxygen in the room. “So, like I said. Lucky.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine soon enough. Have to take leave from work for a month, though, which is a little difficult- ”

 

“Your hand, Cas,” Dean manages to choke out. He hasn’t stopped looking at it since he sat down.

 

Cas pulls his face up to look at him properly, “Dean. Stop.” He strokes his finger over Dean’s cheekbone, “I know how fond you are of my fingers,” he murmurs, and Dean’s face goes completely hot in record seconds, “but I’m going to be fine. Do you trust me?”

 

Dean nods, and he takes Cas’s bad hand and opens it carefully, “Does this hurt?”

 

“A little. Kiss it better?” Cas quips, still acting fine, and Dean knows it’s for his sake, so he does press a light kiss to Cas’s palm. Cas sighs.

 

“How long til they let you go?”

 

“About an hour. Ugh, hate hospitals,” Cas mutters, relaxing back into his seat, bouncing his leg. 

 

Dean thinks of the year they met, what happened with Charlie and her mom, and he shudders. “Yeah, no kidding.”

 

They’re quiet until Cas breaks it, “I… used to come here a lot when I was younger.”

 

Dean turns to him. “You did?”

 

“Back when, uh, Naomi and Zachariah and the rest of them were more involved in my life. We went to a child psychiatrist and one of their physicians who was referred to a private clinic and… well, they’d all just. Gang up on me. Tell me I was wrong. I didn’t even know what they were talking about, I wasn’t even ten yet, but I’d been displaying ‘troubling behaviour’. So they tried and tried, dressed me up in the whitest dresses for every visit, with these- these patent leather shoes that pinched whenever the button snapped into place. And Naomi would have us driven to the clinic on Mondays and the psychiatrist on Fridays and every trip they’d say the same thing. ‘Stop that.’” He snorts, “Clearly that panned out exactly how everyone wanted it.”

 

Dean finds Cas’s good hand and holds it tight. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be. They were transphobic assholes, and I only have room in my life for people who care about me.”

 

Dean shuffles in his seat awkwardly, “What if- what if your family came around?”

 

Cas snorts again, with somehow more derision, “Oh, Dean, then we’d have to take to the skies to get your bacon,” and he turns and looks at Dean strangely. “Why?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Why are you asking about my outdated family?”

 

“No reason, I just- holiday season,” he scrambles, and Cas raises an eyebrow. 

 

“I know you think family is the most important thing, but I’m better off without people that don’t respect the basic fundamentals of who I am in my life,” and he squeezes Dean’s hand. “Besides, I have you, now. Quality over quantity.”

 

Dean smiles but it feels hollow. 

 

* * *

 

“Dean, how much do you think I should charge for a simple line drawing?” Cas calls out while Dean’s preparing some stew. Thank fuck for their butcher or they’d’ve starved to death within their first month of moving in. 

 

Dean calls back, “$1,780. And 69 cents, hehe.”

 

Cas levels him with a glare from his spot on the couch, “And your real answer?”

 

“That is my real answer, babe, deal with it,” he adds more salt, Cas always complains and adds more anyway. “Your work’s fuckin’ beautiful, but I know I should be realistic with assholes on the internet, so yeah, make it an even two grand.”

 

“Dean,” Cas whines, “I’m not Rembrandt.”  
  
“No, you’re better.”

 

Cas grumbles about Dean being no help, and Dean tries to forget Donna’s look on her face when he asked for a raise this morning. He’d been expecting her to shout at him, so when she’d softly asked him what was wrong and he started crying, his masculinity only just made it out intact. 

 

Still, Cas is sick, and he’s dipping into his surgery fund again, so needs must. 

 

“What are you drawing now?”

 

Cas sighs, “Porn.”

 

“Ooh, can I see?”

 

Cas waves him over and Dean wolf-whistles, “That tentacle stuff is hot, dude.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Cas grins. Dean presses a wet kiss to Cas’s cheek and Cas protests, “Ew, was that your impression of a tentacle?!”

 

“Maybe,” Dean laughs before hopping back over to the stew. 

 

Cas wipes his cheek and gets back to work shading some anime character’s balls, his face scrunched up so cute. He almost lets the stew boil over. 

 

* * *

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of vomiting. He opens the bathroom door to find Cas, head balanced on his arm, leaning over the toilet bowl. 

 

“Dean, you’re *hic!* home early,” Cas slurs, and Dean spots the bottle of table wine from a year ago. He crouches down next to Cas and holds his hand. Cas shakes it off. 

 

“Mmm, no, ‘m gross…” he whispers, like it’s a secret. 

 

“What happened?”

 

“Happen? Nothin’, nothin’, just uh,” he gets lost looking into the murky water of the toilet. 

 

“Cas?”

 

“You ever, um *hic!* just wanna… not have a body? Like, live and stuff, have a job and live and stuff. Just not. Have a body. Anymore, so no one can look at you and y’know. Tell. Nobody has no body, haha,” Cas trails off. “I’m so tired, Dean.”

 

Dean gets some toilet paper and wipes the vomit from Cas’s face, his hand trembling while he’s trying not to cry. 

 

Cas throws up some more and Dean rubs his back. Cas flinches away from that, too. “Stop. Not wearing my…” and he vomits before he can finish his sentence. 

 

Finally he looks up at Dean, “Ugh, you’re so pretty, Dean!”

 

Dean holds Cas, scoops him into his arms and squeezes tight, uncaring of the vomit sticking to his pyjama shirt. “Cas…”

 

He lets go and checks that Cas is okay. He’s fallen asleep, and frankly sleeping over the toilet bowl prevents him from choking on his back, so Dean lets him stay there, bringing in a blanket to drape over him. 

 

When Dean treads back to bed, his heart thumps hard and he opens his journal to where Bartholomew’s card is. 


	13. 2025

Castiel has been out for air for about twenty minutes and Dean’s been staring at his coloured pencils pretty much the entire time. The rotten feeling in his gut roils and he wants to throw it up. He can’t stand this, but the thought of following Castiel outside is unbearable too. He just keeps making all of this worse and worse by the minute. 

 

He doesn’t even want to look outside, just in case he makes eye contact with him. God. How in the hell does he keep fucking this up? It’s got to reach a nadir at some point, right? He doesn’t want to keep making Castiel so unhappy, but every step he takes towards trying to make things better just ends up making them worse. Dean wishes for a moment that he could just tap out for a cosmic recollection session, but he only has until Castiel decides to come back in. 

 

Dean doesn’t want him to be mad at him anymore. It’s an epiphany made in plain sight, that he wants this to be over but he’s tired of _them_ being over. Samandriel, pushing Castiel away and avoiding the truth, it’s gotta stop. What the hell is Dean doing, elongating this miserable situation when maybe… maybe Cas wants him back too? If he could just explain everything- Just the thought of it winds Dean, almost sending him to his knees. 

 

There’s no point in being afraid anymore. Dean runs outside after Cas, heart thudding against his chest. He finds him crouched under the cherry tree by the side of his house. Dean stops in his tracks and watches Cas shudder with tears. 

 

He puts his hand on Cas’s shoulder and Cas flinches. 

 

“Sorry-?” Cas’s face drops when he sees Dean. He wipes his eyes in quick swipes of his hand and faces away from Dean again. “I just need a minute.”

 

“Cas, I’m so sorry,” Dean says slowly. He watches Cas’s carved profile and looks out for the tiniest shift in his expression. “I made a huge mistake leaving you, and I- I’ve missed you every day since I made that decision. I’ve been so miserable and I can’t forgive myself for having hurt you for so long.”

 

Dean breathes heavily, his heart hammering in his ears, so he doesn’t hear what Cas says to that at first. “Sorry?”

 

“I said, ‘good’. Don’t forgive yourself.” 

 

With that, Cas strides past Dean back into the house. The pink of the cherry blossoms is suddenly overwhelming and Dean follows Cas back in. 

 

When he does, he finds Cas leaning against the kitchen island, staring intently at his notes. Working, he’s fucking working. 

 

“Cas,” Dean starts, but Cas looks up at him with such pale fury in his eyes that he doesn’t bother finishing the request. 

 

Cas squints at him, “What do you want me to say to you, Dean? That everything’s fine now that you pulled your head out of your ass and apologised?”

 

“I just want to talk.”

 

“I know you don’t give a damn about what I want, but I sure as hell don’t want to talk. Then again, you’ll probably find some way to manipulate me into talking anyway, won’t you?” He looks back down at his work, chewing at his lips angrily. “That reminds me, Uncle Bart sends his regards.”

 

It’s the coldness, the way he says it before laying that icy glare onto Dean, that sends Dean reeling. “What?”

 

“You heard me, Dean.”

 

Dean feels himself move before he bids it, and finds himself needing to reassure Cas. His hand’s reaching out to feel that unfamiliar stubble before he can stop himself, but Cas does it for him, catching his wrist and using it to shove Dean away. 

 

“Don’t touch me.”

 

The linoleum slaps with the sound of his knees meeting it sharply. Cas crowds to him, and suddenly Dean’s surrounded. Cas sighs and joins Dean on the floor. He holds out his hand to Dean and Dean doesn’t understand. Cas gently takes Dean’s palm and traces over the lines of it, suddenly quieter as he breaks eye contact. 

 

“Uncle Bart contacted me a couple weeks after you left. You didn’t take any money with you, but I was still running low and it was eating into my savings. He badgered me, for months, Dean, months, until I had nothing left and longer. I held out for as long as I could, but I-” his breath is ragged, the snarl evident in his words. “I had no choice but to say yes.”

 

Dean’s heart lurches, “You’re a stubborn ass.”

 

“Oh, now you’re invested in my wellbeing?”

 

Dean pulls his hand away, his hackles rising. “You asshole, I was invested from the moment I fucking met you!”

 

“How can you say that when you stopped talking to me and Charlie and Hannah and everyone for years? How can I believe you when I had no idea why you left? You couldn’t even do me the basic decency of writing note!”

 

“It wasn’t-!”

 

“No, I don’t want to hear it, it doesn’t- it’s not even relevant anymore, Dean. And it never really was, and I want you to listen to me when I say this because even after all this time, you have no clue what you should be apologising for.” Cas takes Dean’s hand again, clasping it between his own. He looks deep into Dean’s eyes and neither of them blink. “No matter what your intent was, you fundamentally disrespected my agency and my autonomy. A relationship is not one person making decisions for the other without question, it’s a shared responsibility, and you leaving the way you did proved you didn’t know the difference.”

 

Cas looks down at Dean’s hand and holds it gently like an injured bird. 

 

“There were times, though, when- when I wondered if any of it had been real. If all of this was a rationalisation because you were just… sick of me.”

 

Dean’s entire body reacts to that like it tasted poison, “No.”

 

“I wished it was, because then- then I could hate you more simply. But you did it because you loved me, and that’s… It killed me, Dean. That you thought you had to trick me into the right decision, the decision you’d already made for me.”

 

Cas sighs, feeling the softened fingertips on Dean’s left hand. He’s thoughtful, now, his voice more questioning than accusatory. Maybe it’s the desperation Dean’s giving off, his body a bending rigid thing ready to snap. 

 

“You educated yourself and considered me out of being a person just like you and into a constant string of problems to solve. I had to reevaluate every single thing we’d ever done and threw it under a harsher light to see that. I think that’s what convinced me you didn’t want to love me anymore.”

 

“That’s not true.”

 

Cas looks up at him from below his eyelashes. “Is it not?”

 

“I wanted you to be happy, I didn’t want to be your biggest regret at the end of it all. I didn’t want you to look at me and see years of wasted time.” Dean chokes and realises he’s crying. 

 

“That’s the thing about self-fulfilling prophecy, Dean,” Cas says so casually, like he didn’t just confirm every single fear Dean ever had about how Cas sees him as being true. 

 

"That's not fair," Dean chokes out. 

 

Cas shakes his head. "No, perhaps not, I- even when I hated you most I never regretted what we had. Who we were to one another," he licks his lips, like he's not done. 

 

Dean looks down, his voice wrecked. "Tell me."

 

“You would… lecture me on binding, and I know you didn't mean to but it would... make me feel pressured to transition so I could be the man you wanted me to be. You’re cis, Dean, and no matter how supportive and kind you were, you can never fully comprehend everything I was feeling. Everything you saw was a pinprick of my experience, and it wasn’t even always bad! I don’t regret who I am, and I refuse to. I looked past it all because I was so madly in love with you, because you were always so kind and good to me, but I can’t- that’s- I don’t think you’re good _for_ me.”

 

“I can be. I’ll- I’ll make it up to you.”

 

“You always want to be my saviour, Dean. I just wanted a partner.”

 

Dean knows he’s disgusting now, sobs breaking him apart from the inside, but he doesn’t care. 

 

“I love you, I love you, Cas, please, I love you.”

 

“I know. I...”

 

He doesn't finish. Instead, he gets on his knees, rising above Dean, and presses a kiss to Dean’s temple. He finishes getting up and packs his things away while Dean stays on the ground, still shaking with the shock. 

 

“Forward the rest of the work to my address. Here,” he pulls a business card out of his inside pocket and places it in Dean’s hand to replace his own. “In a way it was... it was good to see you, at last, but I think- Maybe we’ll both get to move on now.”

 

Dean watches Cas leave for good and resolves to remain here and rot if he must. 


	14. 2025

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG WARNING: lots of mentions of insects and some dream-like body horror.

Cas is gone. Cas is really gone. There’s nothing else to be said, and it was all so much worse than Dean could have ever thought. All this time, seven years spent stewing in the same bullshit without taking a second to look outside of it. Alienating his friends, his family, for what?

 

It’s like the ground he’s walked and been so sure of has fallen out from beneath him and he doesn’t know where gravity’s pulling him to anymore. Even his book feels hollow, now. James was always a robot wanting to be a real man. Cas was always a real man, a real person that Dean held up to impossible standards. More than the loss, the huge grief at having lost the love of his life, is the unimaginable shame of it all. He’d martyred himself _for_ himself, thinking it was for something better. He’d been kidding himself for so long. 

 

He takes his phone and dials a number, maybe a little more than desperate. It rings and rings and clicks to voicemail, the familiar apology that Sam can’t come to the phone right now already etched into Dean’s memory. This time he actually leaves a message. 

 

“Hey, Sammy. I… Christ, I don’t know when it became difficult to know what to say to you, but I’m sick of it. Call your brother when you get this, and if you don’t wanna talk to him, talk to me instead,” he lets out a soft chuckle that turns into a quick inhale. He can feel the tears on his cheek despite smiling. “Love ya, Sammy. I really do.”

 

He hangs up and scrolls through his contacts and finds Charlie’s number and calls, going to voicemail as well.

 

“Charlie. I’m sorry. Cas and I have buried the hatchet, and I fucking miss you. Tell Hannah I miss her sorry ass, too. I should’ve never let this happen, I’m- I’m so sorry.”

 

He hangs up before the tears get too thick to talk through. 

 

Jo’s contact name comes up. “Asshole. Stop getting your girlfriend to field calls from me for you. I miss you. Call me.”

 

He’s onto full-blown sobbing by the time he gets to his mom, and he can’t, he just can’t anymore. He cries for all this lost time, all this wasted potential of a life. He feels like he could shake apart, like his veins are pushing their way through his skin, like his blood has been unfrozen. 

 

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep - or more likely, passes out - but when he does, he lies like the dead. 

 

* * *

 

 

All throughout the house is the insistent sound of buzzing. Dean can’t figure out where it’s coming from. He checks the fridge. The cupboards. He checks out back where he puts the garbage out. Nothing. He checks all the lights in the house. 

 

The sound is driving him mad. 

 

He plugs his ears up with cotton wool, but the sound just gets louder. 

 

He runs water in the house, plays Zeppelin at full volume, bangs pots and pans together, but nothing can drown out the din. 

 

Suddenly there’s a pull at his chest, and his throat feels blocked. He’s choking, and he falls to his knees as flies swarm and explode out of his mouth, the buzzing reaching its peak and tearing his throat up in the process. When they’ve all finally made their exodus, Dean heaves blood onto the floor, coughing up dead flies that didn’t quite make it. 

 

And still. The buzzing doesn’t relent. 

 

Something pulls him towards his knife rack and he takes the longest one he can find. He slips it between his ribs and twists. The satisfying crack of bone splits him apart and he lets his hand sink into his chest. 

 

He pulls out his heart, looking more like a rotten peach than anything, and puts it on the table. He sees the maggots crawling in and out of the ventricles with deep curiosity. He picks one up between his fingertips and it wriggles before dying and turning into dust. 

 

As he does, the heart collapses with a sigh and turns to dust too, and at last the house is silent. 

 

Until there’s a sound of wings. 

 

It’s coming from outside, now, beating against his door like a storm about to break his house apart. He walks toward it slowly and the sound lessens, just a little. He hand feels cold against the door handle. He takes a deep breath, his lungs rattling. 

 

He opens the door and a gust of wind knocks him on his ass. He expects something huge and terrifying and lets it take him over for a moment, wanting nothing more than to be at peace. Instead a sparrow lands on his bent knee, looking at him with a tilt of its head. 

 

It lets out a plaintive chirrup and flutters near the bloody hole in his chest. Dean can hardly breathe, but it settles into the cavity, folding its wings into itself and falling asleep. 

 

Dean strokes his finger gently along the feathers on its wing and feels tears on his cheek. His heart is beating again. 

 

* * *

 

 

When Dean wakes up, he immediately emails Cas, asking about how to incorporate sparrows into the story. It’s 3am, so he doesn’t expect a reply so soon, but he gets it anyway. 

 

C: _why?_

 

Dean furiously types: _Because your protagonist deserves a happy ending, and I think it would be poignant that he actually gets to move on, y’know?_

 

This response isn’t quite as quick but: _sparrows are symbolic of lots of things, self-worth, happiness, teamwork, positive thoughts, love, but how can i change the character’s thesis of emptiness to that?_

 

Dean feels his face crack with a smile: _The sparrow flies into his chest once it’s empty. It helps him to heal. Whaddya think?_

 

The response is even slower, but Dean’s no longer even remotely tired. He waits, the light from his laptop burning in the darkness. He looks over through his window and sees that the cherry blossoms have stopped blooming. He missed them. They left with Cas. 

 

He resolves to never miss them again. 

 

* * *

 

The lights are faded in the town so that the fireworks light up the sky. Dean hasn’t been out of the house for a couple of weeks, but he sits on his porch for this, at least. The new year feels hollow, but then again it always has, even when he was younger, happier. 

 

He chows down and watches the colour explode across the night and can’t help but think of Cas. They wrapped on their collaboration a couple of weeks ago. Dean’s happy about the project itself, pretty much the only thing he can be happy about given the situation. He can’t help it.

 

His chest has stopped feeling so tight, though. He’s started looking at the world again instead of living in his own head. He saw Samandriel holding hands with some cute kid his own age the other day, smiling ear to ear. He saw Rufus making his house into a haunted mansion over Halloween, finally opening up to the rest of the town rather than sitting in curmudgeonly solitude. Pamela and Jody started dating (at last, he’d heard people sigh; he felt awful that he’d never noticed. So much for that writerly observation).

 

And after weeks and weeks of long meaningful talks, shouting matches, and more than a few hurt feelings, Dean had largely patched things up with his friends. Anna was delighted. Dean was due to head to Michigan to visit her and Jo anyway, make them dinner and hang out. 

 

He and Charlie had resumed their Skype dates, marathoning whatever shit they pretended to watch instead of what they actually did, reminiscing about the good old days. Dean was even invited to her and Hannah’s anniversary party (not married yet, and Dean was back to teasing her viciously about her commitment skills). 

 

He’s still alone, but pleasantly so. Despite the chill in the air, he was warmer than he’d felt in years. 

 

He hears yell of the crowd as the countdown starts and keeps looking at the sky. 

 

Three. Two. One. 

 

His phone explodes with light and notifications a few moments later with exclamations of happy new year, good tidings from everyone, Donna to Charlie to Sammy. 

 

The smile on his face threatens to break it apart and his chest feels even lighter. He scrolls through them all and sees an unfamiliar number that makes his heart skip a beat (just a little). 

 

_Hello, Dean. Happy New Year. Here’s to new beginnings. C._


	15. 2026

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this is the end! thank you to everyone who has stuck out this entire behemoth to the bittersweet end! i love you all so much, thank you for reading.

As soon as Dean walks into the Harvelle-Milton residence he smells the most incredible chilli he has yet to eat in his life, and his mouth starts watering Pavlovian style. He drops his bag just in time to hear the thundering sound of Max and Rio charging through the apartment to slobber all over him. 

 

“Guys, guys, please, I’m single but you gotta buy me dinner, first!” He laughs and Anna comes out looking frazzled. 

 

“Shoo, both of you! Christ, I’m so sorry, Dean!” She tugs them away by their collars, even though they whine at her. “That’s enough out of you two! Sheesh, where’s the fine print on border collies?”

 

She helps Dean up and he dusts himself off. 

 

“Dean here?” Jo calls from the kitchen. Dean swings around the bend to see her stirring the pot and checking on the rice. When she looks up to see him, he grins and she yells, “WINCHESTER!”

 

He gets caught in a hug sandwich and everything inside him settles. “So we eatin’ or what?”

 

At the table, he can barely hear what anyone’s saying over his own chewing until Jo smacks him upside the head, “Ow, I am almost _thirty_ Joanne Beth, enough with the hitting!”

 

“Oh, Beth,” Anna says wistfully, “Beth would be such a nice name.”

 

Jo pauses mid-spoon smack and Dean recognises her expression as ‘shit, cat’s out the bag’. 

 

“What-?” he starts, but Anna’s eyes widen comically. 

 

“Aw, shit,” she says, but she’s smiling, “well? Might as well, since he’s gonna be the- ”

 

“ANNA! Spoilers, much?!”

 

“Would one of you please speak a language the rest of the class can understand, I am begging you.”

 

Jo shakes her head with a laugh and places her hand over Anna’s. They do that gross couple-y thing where they communicate entirely via eye contact. Jo lets out a breath and turns to Dean. 

 

“We’re doing IVF. I’m, uh… I’m gonna carry it and Anna’s gonna donate the egg, so… yeah,” she’s smiling so wide despite how casual she tries to sound and Dean nearly launches across the table so he can hug them both at the same time. He kisses both of their heads, yelling about finally getting to be a cool uncle. 

 

“Actually, Dean,” Anna starts. 

 

“What? Wait, you don’t need my like. Goods, right?”

 

“Gross, Winchester, none of you is getting inside my wife,” Jo manages to catch him in the rib with her tablespoon. He’d complain but he knows he’s lucky it wasn’t her knife. 

 

Anna laughs, “No, no, we- we want you to be their godfather!”

 

Dean drops to his knees behind their chairs. “You’re serious?”

“‘Course,” Jo says at the same time Anna says, “Completely.”

 

They look at each other again and Dean goes into the kitchen to find any alcohol available to celebrate. 

 

As they get teenage drunk on dessert wine from three years ago, Dean swivels his glass and asks, “Hey, so, am I the first person you told?”

 

“Yeah, but don’t go blabbing and telling everyone, got it? Not even Cas,” Jo slurs and Anna smacks her arm with a quick look at Dean. “What? He said they made up, that- ”

 

Anna claps a gentle hand over Jo’s mouth, and Dean would ask to know more but the room’s a little too spinny. “I’m gonna- we’re gonna go to bed. You good to camp out on the couch, Dean?”

 

“Sure. Night, you two!”

 

He hears Jo complain and sees the silhouette of Anna kissing her forehead before they go into their room, and Dean- he’s happy. He totally and completely is, for the first time in a really long time. But he gets that same ache every time. 

 

He scrolls through his contacts and, against his better (read: sober) judgement, he calls the one person whose voice he wants to hear. 

 

They pick up on the second ring, “Hello? Dean?”

 

“Cas,” Dean practically whispers. “Hi.”

 

“Hi. It’s very late, Dean. You woke me up,” he says, and it might be the crackle of the line, but he doesn’t sound completely pissed. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, “I- I wanted to…” What was he saying?

 

“Dean?” His voice… it’s soft, but it’s gotten rougher. Cas- They’ve both gotten older. 

 

“How do you feel about the book launch?” Dean tries changing the subject, staring at the inert ceiling fan and wondering about babies and futures and what even is the installation process for a ceiling fan? Dean tangents into wondering if they grow like dandelions, randomly popping up in people’s houses. Who has a ceiling fan in Michigan?

 

Oh wait, Cas is talking. “- all a little nerve-wracking, you know?”

 

“Sorry, I didn’t catch all of that, one more time, baby,” Dean says, sleepily settling into the couch. Squishy, squishy couch… 

 

“Baby? Huh,” Cas murmurs, “how much have you had to drink tonight?”

 

“Enough to talk to you.”

 

“I see. Is it such a daunting task?”

 

“Duh. The last time we talked I was the biggest- uh.”

 

“I was… angry. Maybe a little harsh,” Cas says slowly. 

 

“Maybe a lot harsh,” Dean complains, sounding kind of baby-y, but it makes Cas relent. 

 

“Maybe a lot harsh,” he says with a small chuckle, but he pauses for a while and comes back more solemn. “You hurt me so much, Dean.”

 

“I know, Cas. How do I make it better?”

 

“I… I don’t know.” Dean waits for a moment, but that’s until he hears the sound of Cas sniffling over the wire and he can’t bear it. 

 

“Please don’t cry,” Dean whispers, barely able to hold himself together right now, “baby, please don’t cry,”

 

“I miss you,” Cas says, his voice watery. “I’ve missed you so much.”

 

“Okay,” Dean points at the ceiling, wiping his face, “I’m coming over!”

 

“What?! No, Dean, stop,” Cas sounds breathless, but he’s not crying anymore. Already a massive improvement. 

 

“Nope, I’m- the bus is still running, right?”

 

“Dean,” Cas giggles, and it trails into a proper round of laughs that makes Dean’s whole body sing. 

 

“Oh, I missed that,” Dean sighs. “God, I missed that sound.”

 

“Sleep, Dean. Sleep well,” Cas says, so quietly that if it weren’t the only thing Dean could possibly focus on right now, he wouldn’t have heard it. 

 

“Okay, Cas,” he murmurs, “Love you.”

 

He holds the phone away from him a little as his vision starts to blur more, but he just manages to catch a hesitant, “I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

When Dean wakes up in his own drool, his phone still clutched in his hand, he’s rudely reminded of what an ass he made of himself last night. He groans and Jo kicks him a little from where she towers above him. 

 

“You’re getting old, Winchester.”

 

“Have pity on me, I gave up drinking for Lent.”

 

“Sucker. So when are you gonna meet up with Cas?”

 

Dean sits up too quickly then takes a moment to like, not dry-heave over their nice carpet. “The hell?”

 

“I have his new address, if you want it.”

 

“He’s still in Michigan.”

 

“Yep, already said that, dumbass.”

 

“I have to- go…”

 

“You need to shower first,” she grins and yanks him up from the couch, clapping her hand against his cheek despite being a full head shorter than him. “Be happy, idiot.”

 

Dean practically skids into the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

 

He breathes against his hand to check for bad breath for the third time in a minute as he finally gets to Cas’s place. He smooths back his crappy haircut (why oh why hasn’t he switched barbers yet? WHY DIDN’T HE GO TO A BARBERS BEFORE THIS? No time to panic, there’s no time!) and knocks. 

 

He hears Cas lean against the door as he looks through the peephole. “Dean?”

 

“Sorry it took so long, traffic was a nightmare.”

 

He hopes that wasn’t a dopey thing to say. Maybe Cas just wants to forget last night. Forget him. God, what was he thinking? He’s doing it again-

 

The lock unslides and the door opens. “Dean. You- Are those Don Bluth movies?”

 

Dean holds his bluray copies up sheepishly. “I also brought snacks,” and he rustles the plastic bag in his other hand to demonstrate. “I- I know we’re still. That things are still rough. But, before any of this, we were friends. Best friends. You’re my best friend, Cas, in the whole world, and I missed that even more than the- y’know other stuff. I’d rather have you in my life, love you like that, than do this without you anymore. I don’t- I don’t wanna be unhappy, anymore. But!” he holds his hands up (with some difficulty, given everything he’s holding), “No obligation, you can slam the door in my face, and I’ll go home, and- ”

 

“Shut up,” Cas breathes and pulls Dean inside, grabbing his coat so they can hug. Hug. He gets to hold Cas. “You’re still using that convenience store cologne? Aren’t you a billionaire or something?”

 

They settle in with the films, balancing Cas’s laptop on the table, not sitting too close, but not miles away from each other. The films are fun, nostalgic, but they talk the whole way through about everything, about nothing in particular. It should be strange, how easily they still slot into each other after so long, but neither of them could care less. 

 

Suddenly, as _All Dogs Go to Heaven_ winds down, Cas leans against Dean. “Ah, the famous Winchester layering system. How many flannels are you wearing today?”

 

It’s a thinly-veiled excuse to cuddle, but Dean’s not about to call it out. “Only three, plus my undershirt and my jacket. Don’t knock a winning system, buddy. We’re not all living space heaters.”

 

They talk into the night, barely awake as their throats get dry and scratchy. It doesn’t matter. They keep talking. 

 

* * *

 

 

The cherry blossoms are in bloom again when Dean picks Cas up from the station just a little outside of Chester. Dean tries not to let the excitement get the better of him. _Decay_ , their (their!) graphic novel picked up wind on the indie circuit and received an amazing amount of praise from critics and fans of Dean’s other work at their launch. An unmitigated success. That’s what Cas said, argued that they should make a habit of working together. For business purposes. Of course. 

 

Dean was practically bouncing on his toes. 

 

As Cas escapes the platform, he alights on Dean and walks a little faster. He get right up to Dean and smiles fondly. Dean whistles. 

 

“Nice wheels, Cas,” he says, pointing at his bright green suitcase with some cartoon character and their huge teeth, “Which six-grader did you steal that from.”

 

“Very funny. It’s a very compact piece of luggage, a real bargain.”

 

“Hope it can stand the walk,” Dean nods behind him. “It’s quite a trek.”

 

“Oh, I think it’ll handle it just fine.”

 

Cas looks at him just a little too long and Dean’s palms are sweating like he’s eighteen again. 

 

They walk along the pavilion and Dean finally gets to give the tour he didn’t get to last year. 

 

“Over there’s old man Rufus - literally, everyone calls him old man Rufus, like this is some damn Twain novel - and he likes reading at his temple. He’s a softie, really, but you wouldn’t know it at first,” Dean rambles, and it feels right. Jody was teasing him about it for days before Cas arrived, but he’s been more animated recently. He’s had something to look forward to. 

 

“And, finally, we have my humble abode.”

 

“Quite the grand tour, I’m almost overwhelmed,” Cas smirks. 

 

“Almost?!”

 

“Dean, this town is barely a couple miles across, I’m sure it’s never meant to be overwhelming,” and Dean laughs, maybe a little out of nervousness, maybe because the way the pink of the cherry blossoms hits the light behind Cas makes him look ethereal and perfect, maybe a combination of the two. Palms, sweaty, for fuck’s sake. 

 

But suddenly Cas stops smiling and leans in quickly. He feels dry lips on his for a moment, then they’re gone waaaay too quickly. 

 

“Sorry! Sorry, I- God, that was… I can’t believe I- I’m sorry, you just looked so, and I was caught up in the moment, I’m- ”

 

Dean couldn’t care less than Cas is apparently unable to finish a whole sentence. In fact, it makes his heart leap more, and he kisses him back to prove it. 

 

They melt against each other, and it’s more than Dean could’ve ever wished for. 

 

“Dean?”

 

“Yeah, Cas?”

 

“This is… this is okay, right? I mean, we can take it slow, but- ” Cas gives him his steely determined look and Dean wants to kiss him so badly, “I want to try again.”

 

“Snap,” Dean murmurs and leans in again. 

 

When he opens his eyes the blossoms are falling around them. Dean picks one out of Cas’s hair and kisses his cheek. 

 

“Come inside?”

 

Dean holds out his hand and, without hesitation, Cas takes it.

**Author's Note:**

> so i'm not done putting these characters through the ringer, i guess. this is gonna be sad, y'all. 
> 
> as always, if my depiction of trans experience is wrong, call me on my shit! i try my best but i'm not an expert! talk to me over at [aeternstiel](http://aeternstiel.tumblr.com) on tumblr!
> 
> edit: to an extent, this fic is an apology in many ways. as much as i know "a rose" was and is really important to a lot of young trans guys who wanna see themselves in fiction (and more than deserve to) i felt that i had fallen into a lot of cliché and harmful tropes in the portrayal of dean and cas's relationship when it came to cas's identity. dean's behaviour was at times patronising, well-intentioned but destructive in the long term. that was entirely my fault, but just deleting the entire thing wouldn't really address the problem. so! there's this. i hope it's an appropriate apology and i continue to extend my love to the readers who found comfort in this story.


End file.
